


Incendiary

by Noelleian



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Bigotry & Prejudice, F/M, Internment Camps, M/M, Newtypes, Post-Endless Waltz, Wrongful Imprisonment, Yaoi, original character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-05-19 08:36:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 42,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5960989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noelleian/pseuds/Noelleian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A group of wealthy college kids are murdered. There are no witnesses, but there is a suspect. From within the simmering sludge of irrational fear and prejudice, conspiracy theories are born and innocent people pay the price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: Unrest

Early morning sunlight streamed in between the slats of the wooden blinds, causing Quatre to squint against it. He groaned, hand untangling from the mound of sheets and blankets to rub his eyes. He shifted slightly, the feel of soft cotton sheets warm and comforting against his bare skin. He turned his head away from the window, trying to calm his mind and slip back into his hazy doze.

Distantly, he could hear the water running. Trowa never failed to rise with the sun and start his day with a scalding hot shower. Quatre tried joining him once, but couldn't take the extreme heat. He much preferred a lukewarm shower, his skin too sensitive for the high temperatures. 

He could smell coffee brewing downstairs. The aroma rose over the fresh linen scent of the bedding and the heady, musky smell of Trowa. The rich, Arabic stuff Quatre loved, and he thanked his lucky stars for such a wonderful husband.

His subconscious was now fighting him, wanting to be awake, and he flipped over, cursing. He blinked up at the ceiling, bleary-eyed, and entertained himself with thoughts of his husband, naked in the shower. He envisioned powerful muscles shifting beneath smooth, tanned skin, while Trowa soaped himself up. Water catching the fine hairs on his body, little rivulets running down the long limbs and swirling into the drain. 

A stirring in his groin had Quatre rolling onto his belly where he lethargically rubbed the tingle away against the mattress, forcing himself to think about the day's tasks. Cops, and clients, and paperwork, oh my. He heard the water shut off and he lay still, staring at the wall. He closed his eyes even though he knew sleep would not come, but not willing to rise quite yet.

In the quiet placidity of the morning, he couldn't help but pick up Trowa's thoughts, though he often tried not to read him. He didn't like intruding into other people's minds, but at times like this, it was unavoidable. 

He idly read Trowa's mental to-do list. The clients he would be meeting with that day. A rather obnoxious middle aged woman whom Quatre couldn't stand. She flirted with his husband at every opportunity, apparently not caring that he didn't bat for her team. Trowa was a bounty hunter and private investigator. He started the business three years ago after an early retirement from the Preventers, a world wide law enforcement agency and part of the judicial branch of the Earth Sphere Unified Nations. He worked with a large clientele that included not only Preventers and other law enforcement, but also private citizens, tracking anyone from criminals on the lamb, to cheating spouses. 

He'd approached Quatre with his business proposal about eight months after their wedding. Quatre was apprehensive at first, but came around soon enough. Trowa was good at what he did and he always took every precaution to ensure his safety. With Quatre's help, they excelled at getting the job done.

During the war, Trowa had been an accomplished actor and infiltrator. He knew how to slip behind enemy lines and slip back out again, unseen, unheard. He could perform with the best of them. Easily fool the most cunning minds. With Quatre's abilities as an empath, and a telepath, they were an unstoppable team. 

While they worked the business together as equal partners, Quatre's official title was bookkeeper. His gifts as a Newtype were kept very much under wraps with only a select few actually aware of what he could do. Newtypes still faced a very uncertain future and there was plenty of prejudice to go around. Quatre consulted with their clients and relayed any useful information he could garner to his husband when the two were alone. He was the strategic mind behind setting up the operations. He found the flaws within the plans and made sure every 'i' was dotted and every 't' crossed. To fail in that regard could put his husband at risk.

Quatre sifted through Trowa's mind, tossing aside trivial thoughts about picking up his dry cleaning on the way home, or making a mental note to call his sister. He honed in on Trowa's memories of their lovemaking the night before. There, he could see himself through his husband's eyes, feel the love and desire Trowa felt for him. He wiggled happily under the covers as he experienced what Trowa felt when he made love to him. Though Quatre often cursed his Newtype abilities, this was the one thing he always cherished about it. 

It'd gotten stronger since the war. His telepathic abilities had been limited through touch, but now he could easily read thoughts from a good fifty kilometers, if there was little distraction. His ability to read people worked much like a satellite dish. When there was a clear sky, the signal was clear. When it rained, there was static. If his surroundings were chaotic, it was a lot harder to pick up thoughts, and oftentimes the feedback loop would give him migraines.

Quatre's ears tracked Trowa's muted footsteps on the carpet as he walked into the bedroom. He cracked an eyelid open and was treated to the sight of his husband, even more fit than he was during the war, naked but for a towel low on his hips. The sunlight filtering through the window cast bright lines across his smooth skin and gave it a golden glow. Quatre admired him with his one open eye, face smooshed against the pillows.

Trowa must have sensed it because he turned from his place in front of the open closet, glancing at the blond on the bed, eyebrow raised. Quatre's hand lifted in a parody of a wave, one side of his mouth curling up. Trowa smirked at him, said, "You planning on getting out of bed today?" 

Quatre's voice was croaky from sleep. "Nope. In fact, why don't you join me and we'll not get out of bed together." 

"That doesn't make any sense." Trowa selected a pair of black trousers and a blue button down shirt. He draped them across the bed, over Quatre's legs, and walked to the dresser, pulling out a pair of boxers. The towel fell away and Trowa sat on the bench at the foot of the bed, slipping his feet into the underwear. He stood up, pulling the shorts over his hips and walked back around to the side of the bed. He leaned down and brushed his lips against the side of the blond's head. "I've made coffee and I'll make you breakfast," he murmured. 

Quatre's arm shot out and wrapped around Trowa's neck before he could straighten up, pulling his head down for another kiss. Trowa indulged him, but made a face at his husband's morning breath. "You need to brush your teeth."

Quatre pressed his hand against Trowa's face and shoved him away. "Yeah, yeah." He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Grimacing, distaste evident in his voice, he asked, "When's your appointment?" 

Trowa turned from the mirror where he was buttoning his shirt. "Eight thirty." He was meeting with a wealthy socialite dead set on catching her husband with his mistress. She also had the hots for Trowa. He pushed the closet door open all the way and slid a tie off the rack. "You need to get in touch with Heero about the weapons' shipment," he said, winding the tie into a knot. 

"Yeah, I know. I'll call him in a bit," Quatre said, yawning, fingers scratching a bare leg. Heero was residing in the United States with his lover, Duo. Their old war comrades supplied them with the guns, ammunition, and other equipment Trowa needed to track his targets and execute raids.

Quatre stood and stretched, jaw popping with another yawn. "We should get that case of tear gas today that was on back order." He padded to the bathroom.

"Hmmm..." Trowa said, nodding. "Good. Running low on that." He checked his appearance in the mirror, running his fingers through brown hair. Gone were the long bangs in the front that he'd sported as a teenager. He stood straight, tall, broad-shouldered, strikingly handsome. He looked like a man ready and able to take over the world and he looked like he knew what to do with it once he did. Quatre's eyes caught the glimmer of gold on Trowa's finger, thought smugly, And he's all mine.

Standing in the threshold of the adjoining bathroom, he glanced over his shoulder, smirking, "I expect breakfast when I'm done. Chop, chop, my good man." He clapped his hands and ducked into the bathroom. Cackling, he slammed the door when his husband advanced on him.


	2. Chapter 2

Trowa slung his suit jacket over the back of a kitchen chair and opened the cupboard to grab a frying pan. He placed it on the stove and pulled out his phone, checking the time. He still had a good hour and Quatre always took long showers. He opened his contacts and located Mrs. Seigried, his morning client, to confirm their appointment. Now was the time to do it since his husband wasn't in the room. Trowa knew from experience that Quatre would be pulling faces, trying to distract him from his phone call. He desperately tried to stay professional, despite Quatre and his client doing everything in their power to be unprofessional. 

He knew he couldn't really blame Quatre. The woman was a pariah. She didn't care if her husband was cheating on her. After Quatre met her, he'd informed Trowa that she actually _wanted_ her husband to be having an affair. If he was caught, her prenup would be rendered null and void. She would be free from her miserable marriage, several hundred million dollars worth of stocks, bonds, and cold hard cash, richer. 

Quatre read that off of her within the first few minutes of their initial interview. She was as selfish and nasty as they came. She was condescending and treated just about everyone around her with disdain. She hated Quatre. She hated the fact that Trowa didn't have eyes for anyone but him. Quatre ranted and raved after they'd gone home that night, outraged that this woman had so openly and unapologetically flirted with Trowa right in front of him.  It'd taken Trowa hours to calm him down with lots of intimate words of reassurance, many soft kisses, and passionate lovemaking. Trowa was an open book that night, welcoming Quatre into his mind with no reservations. He'd needed Quatre to know that he wasn't going to leave him. 

His phone rang just as he was about to make the call, Mrs. Seigried's personal number popping up on his caller ID. Trowa cleared his throat and pushed the green button, establishing the connection.

"Ah, Mr. Barton! So good to hear your voice. I hope I'm not calling too early?" 

"No, not at all, Mrs. Seigried."

"Edna, please. Must we do this every time?"

"With all due respect, Mrs. Seigried, I prefer to address my clients formally."

"Oh, but I'm not just any client, am I?" The woman simpered. Trowa's eye twitched. He could almost _hear_ her batting her eyelashes. He clenched his teeth, using his monumental gift of self-restraint to ignore the suggestive tone.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Seigried?"

She sighed, sounding dreadfully put out by his unwillingness to address her by her given name. "Well, I'd like to know if we're still on for this morning? I know of a charming little cafe in the east district that has the most wonderful quiche - "

"Yes, our appointment is still scheduled for eight thirty, but we will meet in the office, as we always do," Trowa said with practiced patience. 

She huffed, "Must you always do things by the book, Mr. Barton?" 

"Yes, M'am."

"Very well. I will meet you there at eight thirty sharp." Her voice dropped conspiratorially, "Is - will your... _husband_ be there as well?" She spat the word 'husband' like it was a dirty secret. It took every ounce of willpower Trowa had not to tell the woman off, once and for all.

"No, M'am. He has a prior engagement."

"Oh?" She said, instantly perked. "Alright, then. I'll be seeing you in about an hour. Goodbye, Mr. Barton."

Trowa pressed the 'end' button on his phone and slipped it back into his pocket. He leaned his hands on the table, counted to ten. _Breathe in, breath out..._ He'd been getting a lot of practice with these breathing exercises lately. Controlling his anger was imperative. Quatre would most definitely pick up on it, if he hadn't already, and Trowa didn't want to upset him. He couldn't wait to finally get this husband of hers on tape with his mistress so he could be done with this case already. 

He pulled eggs and turkey sausage out of the fridge. Turning the burner on, he heated the pan, dropping a pat of butter into it. It sizzled as it melted and Trowa went to work frying up the sausage and whisking the eggs. He spilled some onto the counter from the vigorous stirring and took a deep, calming breath, reaching for the dish towel to wipe up the splatters.

"Was that the bitch?" Quatre's voice startled him and he jumped slightly, turning to see his husband in the kitchen, pouring coffee into a red cup. Trowa shook his head, turning back to his cooking.

"You shouldn't call her that."

Quatre leaned against the counter, mug against his lips, blowing gently. He shrugged. "Why not? It's what she is."

"I know, but right now, she's our client. We need to be amicable."

"It's seven thirty in the morning and I'm in my kitchen. I don't need to be amicable about a woman who is trying to get into my husband's pants."

Trowa sighed and closed his eyes, not thrilled to be having this conversation again. He flipped the sausage. "Quatre, can we not do this? I know you hate her and I don't blame you. I don't like her either, but we have a working relationship at the moment and I need to be cordial, at least until this is over."

"Sure is taking you a while to catch that elusive husband of hers."

Trowa turned his head sharply, eyes narrowed. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Quatre's shoulders lifted in a casual shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. "Nothing." His tone was that of forced lightness. "Just...you don't usually have this tough of a time catching someone."

Trowa faced him, hands on his hips. "Are you trying to insinuate something?"

Quatre stared back, eyes challenging. "I don't know. Is there something to insinuate?"

Turning off the burner, Trowa shoved the pan to the back of the stove. He spun around and stalked towards his husband, leaning into his space. He raised his hand, finger pointed in the blond's face. "You are unbelievable! I know I did not just hear you imply that I am deliberately taking my time on this case because I am interested in that woman. You damn well should know me better than that." He pulled back and walked around the table, grabbing his jacket. He unhooked his keys from the wall mount and turned back to Quatre who still hadn't moved. "I'm going to work. To do my job. I suggest you do yours as well." He left the kitchen and stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him. 

He reached his car and unlocked the door. He stood for a just a few moments, breathing hard through his nose, trying to calm his anger and regain his control. His muscles shaking with adrenaline. How could Quatre even _think_ that? Had Trowa given any sign that he was interested in her? He didn't think so. Quatre would have been able to read if off him if he was. Trowa never hid his thoughts and feelings from his husband. Quatre should know better.

He closed his eyes as the deep breathing began to work, blood pressure leveling out. He thought about how he would feel if their positions were reversed. Trowa would be furious if someone was relentlessly pursuing Quatre the way this woman was pursuing him. But Quatre _knew_ he wasn't interested. That, Trowa was sure of and it relaxed him a little. Quatre's behavior was emotionally driven, lashing out in frustration. For that, Trowa could forgive him, but they definitely needed to discuss the issue of making unfair accusations, no matter how justified their feelings were.

Trowa pulled the door open and slid behind the wheel, laying his jacket across the passenger seat. He grasped the handle to pull the door closed when he heard Quatre shout for him. The blond was running out the front door, not even bothering to close it behind him. He reached the car and stopped a few feet away, panting for breath. His socks wet from the damp grass.

"Trowa, wait. I'm sorry. I was being awful." He swallowed, looking pained. "I know you're not interested in her and I know you wouldn't do anything to jeopardize our marriage. I'm just - I'm having a hard time dealing with this and it makes me angry and insecure." He looked up, eyes wavering, uncertain. "Forgive me?"

Trowa was still irritated, but he could understand where Quatre was coming from. He got out of the car and closed the distance between them. He cupped his husband's face, looking deep into stormy eyes, said emphatically, " _You_ are the only one I want. I love you. I hope you know that."

Quatre nodded, hands clasping around Trowa's wrists. "I do. I know it. It's just - I know what she thinks of me. I know what her intentions are. She hates me -"

"She doesn't hate you."

Quatre gave him a look, brow raised. "She does. Who's the telepath here?"

Trowa brushed a lock of blond hair off Quatre's forehead. "Look, I'm getting close, okay? I should be able to catch this guy within the next couple of days. Once I have the evidence, I can present it to her, and we can wash our hands of this. Alright?"

"Promise?"

Trowa stroked a soft cheek, tipped Quatre's face up, pressing a kiss to the plush lips. "Promise," he whispered. He held eye contact, opening himself up to be read and Quatre took full advantage. After a few moments, the blond sighed shakily, and nodded.

"Okay. I really am sorry, love. I didn't mean any of that."

"I know. I'm sorry you have to deal with this."

"I'm sorry _you_ do. First you have to deal with that - that tart. Now, you have to deal with my petulance. I'm such a brat."

"Yes, you are, but I love that about you."

"I'm sorry for that, too."

"I'm sure you are, baby."

"So...can I still kick her ass when this is all over?" Quatre turned hopeful eyes on his husband.

"That might land you in a little bit of trouble," Trowa said, slightly concerned that Quatre would actually do just that. 

The blond smirked, "It'd be worth it."

"Quatre."

Quatre tilted his head back, laughing. "Alright, I'll be good. No violence then. Maybe Duo can hook me up with one of his paint bombs. Quid pro quo."

Trowa chuckled, "Now, that I can get behind." He checked his watch. "I gotta go."

"Be careful. When will you be home?"

"Usual time, probably."

He nodded, smiling. "Okay, I'll see you soon. I love you." He wrapped his arms around Trowa, mouth pressing eagerly against his husband's. Trowa kissed him, pushing all the love and devotion he had into it and the blond moaned in appreciation. He watched as Trowa climbed back into the car and waved from the curb as he drove away. 


	3. Chapter 3

Quatre shut the front door and leaned against it, closing his eyes. What had gotten into him? He couldn't believe he just accused Trowa of wanting to sleep with his client. He _knew_ Trowa wasn't interested. He could read it off him without even tapping into his mind. He knew how Trowa felt about it. He supposed the stress of the situation just overwhelmed him. The tension of dealing with this woman and her spiteful, vindictive thoughts was exhausting. How anyone could live like that was beyond him. He hated the fact that Trowa had to deal with her. He knew his husband could handle himself, but it was so aggravating not being able to just tell her what he really thought of her.

They'd been married for four years and while it was a wonderful, strong, and stable marriage, it wasn't without the typical bickering and occasional fights. It wasn't easy living with one person day in and day out, learning to adjust to their personal habits, their idiosyncrasies. They'd been together off and on for a total of twelve years, meeting when Quatre was only fifteen and Trowa, seventeen. Sadly, Trowa really didn't know his true age at the time, having been only a baby when his parents were killed and his older sister lost to him. Later, when the two siblings reunited, Trowa's identity was finally confirmed, his sister told him he'd been born in August, AC 178. He'd wept in Quatre's arms that night, confused by his own poignant reaction, but elated all the same.

Trowa had had some flings before settling down with Quatre seven years ago. Quatre'd had only one. A Maguanac whose name was Asadel. Five years older than Quatre, he was exotically handsome with olive skin, dark eyes, and black wavy hair. He'd wooed the, at the time, emotionally vulnerable Quatre, who'd been pining for Trowa. The man was amorous, passionate, but also gentle and romantic, and Quatre was swept off his feet before he even realized it. Rashid was furious when he'd discovered their relationship, under the impression that Quatre was being taken advantage of. Quatre vehemently defended Asadel, but broke off the relationship anyway. It had been fun, but it wasn't what Quatre wanted, needed. He threw himself into his work, refusing to even entertain the idea of dating, despite pressure from his family and the media.

He rubbed his temples, blew out a breath, not happy with himself for drudging up thoughts of a very difficult and lonely time in his life. Trowa had been slow to come around, but when he'd finally decided that knew what he wanted, his affection could not be contained. His convictions firmly in place, he seemed to feel the need to make up for lost time and heartache. He came at Quatre with everything he had, all strong arms, eager hands, passionate kisses, and exalted eyes. They'd moved in together after four months of whirlwind romance that still left Quatre dizzy with euphoria when he thought about it. He moaned softly, involuntary, at the memories, head lolling against the door, grinning like a love-sick fool.

He'd have to do something special to make it up to Trowa for his behavior. Maybe a nice dinner and Trowa's favorite movie, a massage. He deserved it. He was an amazing man with unlimited amounts of integrity and decency. That decided, Quatre ran up the stairs to the bedroom to change his wet socks. Anxiety was bubbling in his stomach and he rubbed it, attempting to soothe the butterflies. This particular client gave him horrible vibes and they seemed to get worse every time Trowa met with her.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and peeled his socks off, tossing them into the hamper, one just missing the mark. He sighed and got up to grab the sock, dumping it into the basket. He selected a fresh pair out of the nightstand, pulling them on and walked to the closet to get his shoes. Shoving his feet into a pair of loafers, he headed back down to the kitchen to clean up the breakfast dishes.

The food was only half cooked, the eggs congealed. Quatre wrinkled his nose and tipped the pans' contents into the garbage disposable. Though he hated to waste food, his stomach churned at the thought of eating. He placed his cooled coffee into the microwave and heated it up, though it probably wasn't the best idea to be drinking coffee at the moment. He quickly washed the pans and placed them back in the cabinet. Grabbing his mug, he wandered into the office, picking up the morning paper off his desk. He plopped down in the chair, the springs creaking slightly, and skimmed the headlines, the mug resting gently against his lips.

Among the numerous front page stories of political contention and squabbling, and weather forecasts, the biggest story this morning was murder in the booming districts of West London. A group of young Oxford students found dead in a vacant alley while bar hopping in the vibrant area of the city popular with young college types. It was rich with arts and culture, loaded with bars and clubs, galleries, trendy bookstores, and coffee shops. Quatre and Trowa frequented the spot often, especially loving the eccentric, but delightfully creative independent theaters, and a high end club, favored by many lgbt patrons. Illegal activity was typically limited to the exchange of designer drugs and drunken fisticuffs. Extreme violence was rare.

One victim was said to be the oldest son of a senior member of Parliament. There were six victims in all, gunned down in their prime. Quatre scanned the article. Apparently robbery was not a motive because their wallets, purses, phones, and jewelry had been found with the bodies. All their money and credit cards were accounted for. So, they were going with a random act of violence, or a personal vendetta. But a personal vendetta to whom? One of the students, or to the student's Parliament father? Was there a political precedent? A message to Parliament? An act of terrorism? There was no sign of the weapon, no suspects, no witnesses. Odd, considering the highly populated area.

Because these were kids who came from privileged backgrounds, one who's father was a prestigious member of government, a nation-wide manhunt was underway and it appeared they were pulling out all the stops to catch the killer, or killers. Every possible resource was being tunneled into this investigation. Of course, the Preventers were all over it, Quatre had no doubt. Large amounts of money were likely changing hands, some of it probably less than lawful. Quatre knew how the system worked and found himself grateful that he'd left that life behind. Politics was a dirty business, justice was often bought, money and power always had its way. He did not miss it one bit.

He jumped when the phone rang, tossing the paper down on the desk, and reached for the receiver.

"Bloom Investigations, how may I help you?"

" _Jeez, Q, you sound like a proper secretary,_ " a jovial voice snickered into his ear.

"Duo?" Quatre checked the phone base, the ID readout displaying the name 'Duo Maxwell'.

The voice scoffed, " _You're surprised?_ _Ch, I'm insulted, really I am._ "

"Oh, stop it. And I'm not a prop - I'm not a secretary." Quatre propped the phone between his ear and shoulder and reached across the desk for the weapons' inventory file.

" _Okay, Q, sure you're not_."

"Shut up," Quatre shuffled through the folder until he found the document he needed. He smirked, "Where's your lover? Isn't he supposed to be calling me?"

" _Oh, I see. Too good to talk to me, are you?_ " Quatre chuckled, familiar enough with Duo's humor to know he wasn't actually offended. " _We're having an issue with one of our distributors. He's gone over to give them a little...incentive...if you know what I mean_."

"He makes a very effective mook."

" _He'll probably take that as a compliment_."

"As well he should. What do you have for me?"

" _Right down to business, eh? No small talk? You sound like Heero._ "

"What do you want, the laundry list of mundane daily chores?"

" _Oh, come on. I know your life is more exciting than that. Come on, work that brain magic you got there. What am I thinking right now?"_

"Duo, you know I can't read you over the phone, but I'd be willing to bet it's probably extremely perverted and I'm actually incredibly grateful that I can't right now."

Duo guffawed so loud, Quatre had to pull the phone away from his ear for a second to spare his hearing. " _Touche, Q, my man, touche. Okay, I have one unit of tear gas comin' to you next week and - did you get the pepper spray yet?_ "

"No, but I'm expecting it today, or tomorrow. I sent the payment last night. It should arrive in your account this afternoon."

" _Sounds good. I'll send you the invoice as soon as it clears. Any other orders for me?_ "

Quatre uncapped his pen and checked off the unit order, scribbling in the ETA. "No, not at the moment. We're pretty well-stocked otherwise." He set the pen aside, laid the sheet back in the folder, and slid it into metal box on top of the desk. "How are you guys? Business going good? Heero never tells me anything."

 _"He never tells anyone anything. It's like pulling teeth_ ," Duo sighed, exasperated, but endeared nonetheless. " _Oh, it's good. Things are good. You know Heero, all work and no play. He forgets that he's human and needs to relax and unwind sometimes. That's when my gundamium handcuffs come in handy_."

Quatre could practically hear Duo's eyebrows waggling on the other end of the phone. "Yeah, did not need to know about that, thanks."

" _Hey, you asked._ " Duo paused. " _Are you - I mean, you still have that...one client?_ "

Knowing exactly who he was talking about, Quatre huffed, rubbed the side of his mouth in agitation. "Yes."

" _Ooh. Tough luck, kid. She's still barking up the wrong tree, huh?_ " Duo asked, though it was obvious he already knew the answer.

Quatre groaned, "Yes, she is." The annoyance made his voice low, grating.

" _Hey, I'm sorry man. Didn't mean to bring up a touchy subject_."

"No, it's okay. I'm not annoyed at you. Just the situation. I just want this case to be over with. Trowa just left to meet with her. Really hoping he gets the footage he needs to close this."

" _I don't blame you. I'd be pretty pissed, too. You know, I know a guy who could...take care of that problem for you,_ " Duo whispered conspiratorially. His voice was husky, mischievous.

Quatre barked out a laugh, his head tipping back. "Don't tempt me. Trowa would kill us both."

" _Eh, what kind of friend would I be if I didn't at least offer?_ " Quatre suddenly had a vivid picture of Duo sitting in Heero's chair, feet up on his desk, shrugging nonchalantly.

"Are you still coming out next month?" The two couples got together twice a year, once in the summer, and once in the winter. Quatre and Trowa would travel to the states for one trip, and Heero and Duo to London for the other. It was something that Quatre always looked forward to. It reinforced their bond, kept their friendship strong.

" _As long as there aren't any surprise problems, yep. Wouldn't miss it._ "

"Can't wait to see you guys."

" _Same here. Oh - Heero just walked in. You still need to talk to him?_ "

Quatre scratched his head and lifted his mug. "No, I don't think so. I think we've got everything settled. Just tell him I said, 'hi', and I'll talk to him next week."

" _Will do. See ya soon, Q_."

"Yeah, bye, Duo."

He pressed the 'end' button on the phone and set the receiver back on its base. Leaning back in the leather office chair, he rested his elbows on the arms, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. His eyes caught the large headline on the front of the newspaper. Something about it set him on edge, but he didn't know what. It gave him a bad feeling. Even worse than that of Mrs. Seigried. Something ominous, but intangible settled over his mind like a dark cloud.

He shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, mentally berating himself for his paranoia. He swiped the remote control off the desk and flicked on the telescreen. A news conference, the head of Parliament delivering a resonating speech, speaking on behalf of the shooting victims and their families. The man was ardent as he vowed swift retribution, his fist raised in the air, then slamming down onto the pulpit to punctuate his biting words. Dozens of microphones were mounted under his chin, recording every passionate word. He spoke with righteous indignity, the blinding flashes of the cameras not fazing him in the slightest.

What sent chills racing down Quatre's spine was the large scare quotes at the bottom of the screen. _'Newtype Responsible for Murder?'_ The uneasy feeling came surging back with forceful clarity. The question mark at the end was irrelevant. Quatre was well aware of how things worked. Opinions were being formed, the seeds of prejudice planted. They'd found their suspect, or at the very least, a scapegoat.

"Oh, damn." This would not end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! *Hugs* ^_^


	4. Chapter 4

Trowa slid his ID card into the electronic reader and waited for the prompt to scan his fingerprint. He pressed his thumb against the pad until the red light flashed green. A beep and a click and he swiftly grabbed the door handle and swung it open, letting himself into the building. The complex was large and cold, the hum of electricity reverberated off the steel walls of the building. Usually, the soft, white noise soothed him, but today, it just grated on his nerves. 

A few employees from other offices in the building nodded a curt greeting to him as he passed. He gave a slight dip of his head in response, but didn't even bother to glance more than a fraction of a second in their direction. He was barely on a second name basis with any of these people, though Quatre often scolded him for being anti-social. _It wouldn't kill you to be a little more polite, you know,_ his husband's soft voice admonished in his head. He tended to agree, but this morning, he was not in the mood. 

He stood in front of the glass elevator and punched the arrow button that pointed up, huffing in irritation. It lit up and he waited, not quite patiently, tapping his foot on the marble floor. The light blinked out and Trowa watched as the glass dome slid smoothly down, lining up with the ground floor. There was a ding and the doors parted. He stood to the side to let the two people inside off and then stepped in, punching the button for the third floor where his office was located. He stared up through the translucent ceiling, observing the large cables and pulleys as the doors slid closed and the lift began its ascent. He ignored the slight lurch in his stomach, deep in thought. 

He knew this case had been difficult for Quatre. He could imagine what it was like for him to watch one of his husband's clients throw themselves at him. It must have been a thousand times worse to know what that person was thinking every time you crossed their path. Trowa knew with utmost certainty that he would be crawling out of his skin with rage if their positions were reversed. To his credit, Quatre showed remarkable restraint during the small handful of times he'd had to deal with Edna Seigried. But, boy, did he have an impressive, and rather colorful vocabulary for hours afterward. Trowa chuckled to himself as he remembered his tiny husband, baby face contorted in anger, pacing a hole in the floor, spitting out a tirade of curses, in English, Arabic, French, and Japanese. His hands curled into his fists as he ranted and raved. Trowa himself learned a few new words during those times and he suspected Duo had something to do with Quatre's extensive repertoire of curse words.

The elevator reached the third floor and he stepped out into the dim hallway, walking towards his office. A florescent light flickered over his head and he felt the first twinges of a headache behind his eye. Halfway down, he stopped short, frozen in surprise. The door to his office was opened slightly, light from within spilling out into the hall. Trowa glanced behind him then back at the door, looking for any sign of an impending attack. He leaped silently to the side and pressed himself against the wall adjacent to his office. Instinct setting in, he reached into his jacket for his sidearm, unclipping it from its holster. He held it, muzzle pointed slightly upward as he slid along the wall, stopping just short of the open door, ears piqued for any sound that might give him an inkling of what he was dealing with. He heard the muted sounds of a person moving around, the soft swishing of fabric. He glanced back down the hallway, both directions, braced himself and angled his pistol, then stepped out in front of the door. He kicked it open all the way and pointed his gun in the vicinity of the noises.

The person inside jumped in surprise, an item in their hands dropping to the floor as Trowa rapidly assessed the situation. The item wasn't a gun, it was a picture frame. A quick glance and Trowa recognized it as the photo of Quatre and himself, one that Duo took, on their wedding day. 

"Oh! Trowa. There you are!"

Trowa's instinctual fight mode was a little slow on the uptake and he cocked his gun as he took stock of the intruder. Female, about five foot six, age approximately mid-fifties. His mind clicked and recognition filtered in. Killer instincts making way for dull shock. Still, he kept the gun pointed at her.

Eyes narrowed, he hissed, "What are you doing in my office? How did you get into the building?" Only authorized personnel were admitted into the complex before nine thirty. This woman was not authorized personnel. 

Surprise wearing off despite the firearm still pointed at her head, Edna Seigried bent down to retrieve the picture frame she dropped. She glanced at it distastefully, but set it back on top of Trowa's desk. She leaned against the edge, in what she apparently surmised was a seductive pose, crossing one dainty ankle over the other, and tossed her auburn hair over her shoulder.

"Honestly, Trowa," she tutted. "Is the gun really necessary? It's only me."

"You didn't answer my question."

There was a gleam in the cold, blue eyes. "I have my methods." She smirked with painted lips.

"That's not an answer."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm an efficient woman, Mr. Barton. Especially when there's something I want."

Trowa didn't budge. "I'm still waiting." He kept the gun pointed at her, though he knew he wasn't likely going to use it now. 

She leveled her gaze on him. Then she reached into her hand bag and dug around. Trowa tensed his arms, trigger finger steady. She pulled out a small, plastic card and showed it to him. It was an ID card, identical to his own. His sharp eyes made out the tiny picture in the corner and recognized it as Mrs. Seigried. 

She twiddled it between her fingers. "I hacked into the building's security system and added my ID to the authorized personnel roster. I can go in and out any time I please."

Trowa's eyes widened slightly, surprised. Damn, she really was resourceful. 

"How did you get into my office?"

She groped around in her bag again and pulled out a key ring. She sifted through about fifteen different metal keys before she selected one, holding it up between her thumb and forefinger. The rest of the keys jingled together as she shook them in front of her face, smug. "I stole your husband's key."

Anger was beginning to set in. He lowered his gun and held out his hand. "Give it to me."

She pulled the keys away and held them behind her back. Coy, she asked, "What if I don't?"

Trowa pointed the gun at her right leg with one hand, the other still extended out in front of him. "If you don't, I'll put a bullet in your leg, and then I will notify Preventer's Headquarters, the director of which I am personally acquainted, and they will have you apprehended and charged with felonious breaking and entering and fraud."

Her calm, superior demeanor faltered, worry flashed across her face, but it was quickly replaced with a mask of indifference. She cleared her throat. "You think I don't have the power to fight those charges in court? Do you know how many lawyers my husband has at his disposal?"

Trowa calmly holstered his pistol. She wasn't going anywhere. He was blocking the door. If she made a run for it, she'd have a hell of a time getting past him. "I'd love to know how you'd explain the reasoning behind what you've done to your husband and his lawyers."

The color drained from her face and she wavered on her feet. But she was not one to be outdone. She tried a different approach. "Trowa -"

"Mr. Barton."

She dropped her gaze to the floor, feigning remorse. "Mr. Barton," she whispered. Her eyes rose to meet his, suddenly soft, contrite. It looked outrageously out of place on her face. "Surely, you must know I meant no harm. I was only having a bit of fun." She sidled closer, hips swaying under the sheath of her red pencil skirt.

She was going to try to seduce her way out of this. Trowa scoffed, far past his threshold of tolerance for this woman. He stood his ground, immobile, eyes hard. She approached him and lifted her chin, attempting to woo him with doe eyes. Her hands rose, red-tipped fingers tracing a button on his suit jacket. "Maybe...there's a way I can make it up to you?"

Trowa glared down at her. "I don't think so. In fact," he turned away, walking around to stand behind his desk, and booted up his computer. "Your behavior is grounds for dismissal of your case. I'm making a record of your conduct and the reason I'm dropping you. Find someone else to help you."

She gasped. "Tr - Mr. Barton, please! I - I promise I won't do it again. I'm just...I'm having a hard time right now and I've been so lonely. Please give me another chance." She sniffled, turning on the waterworks.

Trowa regarded her in silence, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Seigried, but I'm afraid I can't help you anymore." He bent down and began typing up a dismissal report. "I'm closing your case as of today."

She stood stock still in outrage. "How _dare_ you? Do you know who I am? I can shut your business down within minutes. You'll never work in this town again!" Seething, she reached into her purse to pull out her phone. 

"Be sure you tell them how you got into the building and why you broke in."

Her arm dropped, defeated. She watched him, eyes imploring him not to do this. "Is there no way I can fix this?"

"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Seigried." He gestured towards the door. "I'm sure you can see yourself out."

For a brief moment, Trowa thought he saw an expression of genuine emotion flicker across her face, but in an instant it was gone. Her face contorted with rage, lips curling back over her teeth. "You'll regret this, _Mister_ Barton," she hissed. Her eyes darkened beneath lowered brows, voice dropping a full octave. She stepped closer, leaning over the desk, face inches from Trowa's. 

"I told you I am an efficient woman, Mr. Barton. You think I haven't been able to find information about you? About your _husband?_ " Her eyes shined in triumph as Trowa's widened in alarm. She grinned, twisted her face into an ugly parody of itself. "Oh yes. I know things about you. About you both. I know of the... _talents_...your little husband possesses. You wouldn't want that getting out, would y -"

She was cut short as Trowa's hand snapped out, quick as a whip, and seized her by the throat. His eyes were black with rage. There was a click as the previously holstered gun rested against her temple. When had he gotten that out? She hadn't even seen him reach for it. 

He snarled in her face, teeth gnashing. "Madame, I'd advise you never to speak a word of what you know, or think you know. You may know people in high places, but so do I. I know people who can make you disappear and I can see to it that you are never... _ever_...found. Are we clear?"

Fear flashed across her eyes and she trembled beneath his hands. Mouth gaping like a fish, she struggled to form words.

The hand around her throat tightened. "Are. We. Clear?"

Her head nodded frantically, up and down, eyes bugging out. "Ye - yes, yes, we're clear."

"Good." He released her and gestured to the door again, putting his gun away. "Now, get the fuck out of my office."

Visibly collecting herself, she pulled Quatre's key off the ring and placed it on the desk. Turning, she scurried out of the room on shaking legs, expensive heels wobbling. He waited until he could hear the clear sound of the elevator swishing closed before he went back to his computer and finalized the report, heart pounding in his chest. Oh, but that felt _good_. Even better now that she was out of their lives. He reached for his phone and pressed the first number on his speed dial.

On the third ring, Quatre picked up. Trowa smirked into the receiver.

"Babe, put on your sexiest little number. We're celebrating tonight. I've got great news."

 


	5. Chapter 5

Quatre stood in front of the bedroom mirror, fluffing his hair with giddy pleasure. Trowa had called that morning, only a half hour after he left, and gleefully told him that he'd cut Mrs. Seigried loose. Quatre had to exercise monumental self-restraint to keep himself from squealing in a most unmanly manner. 

It'd been all he could do to keep himself focused on his work for the rest of the day. It hadn't been easy, but he'd managed to quell his excitement enough to deal with their clients and complete the necessary paperwork. Of course, he'd called Duo back almost immediately and together, they'd yelped and crowed in triumph over the phone. A neighbor walking by might have thought he and Trowa were housing exotic animals for all the noise they made.

Trowa had three more clients to meet with that day, but now, he should be on his way home. They were going to celebrate by heading out to their favorite club. _Put on your sexiest little number,_ Trowa had said, and Quatre felt his loins give an excited twitch at the thought of a romantic dinner, and some heady dancing. The feel of his husband's powerful arms wrapped tightly around him, the rub of his body, hot breath, laced with expensive whisky, the pounding of his heart, the bright, flashing lights, the deafening beat of the music, and the musky scent of sweat and cologne.

This time, he did squeal. Loudly. He flopped down onto the bed, bouncing the springs beneath his back. He sighed, elated. Not even the unnerving news of the murders from last night and the possible repercussions of what it could mean for Newtypes, could spoil his mood. His body buzzed with renewed energy and he briefly entertained the thought of touching himself. The beginnings of an erection making itself known between his legs. He decided against it, feeling that getting himself off now, without Trowa present, would cheapen their special night. He ignored it, a little reluctantly, but the anticipation of getting fucked later eased the disappointment. 

He heaved himself off the bed, righting his clothes, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles. He checked his reflection in the mirror, a wave of unsolicited uncertainty churned in his stomach. He really didn't know what Trowa saw in him. He was small, skinny, with a baby face that he never really grew out of. They were such polar opposites. Sometimes, those little seeds of doubt he tried so hard to rid himself of, made their way into his mind. He wavered on his feet, chiding himself for his weakness. 

He knew how Trowa felt because he'd felt it many, many times. The passion, the ardor, the love that emanated off of him in waves should've been enough to convince him that his husband wasn't going anywhere. So, why did that little voice, that little person in his head still whisper those unwanted words to him? The little voice that said,  _You're not good enough and you know it._ No matter what he did, what Trowa did, it would not completely go away and it frustrated him. 

 _Okay, Quatre, knock it off,_  he chided himself. _You know damn well that Trowa thinks you're good enough. He loves you and he wants you and he adores you so just._.. _stop._

The uneasiness faded, for now, and he looked himself over thoroughly. Black trousers, fitting perfectly against his curves, and the form hugging silk shirt that Trowa had gotten him for Christmas that brought out the blue in his eyes. It was as good as he was going to get. He brushed his bangs out of his eyes and reached for the cologne Trowa favored on him. He spritzed a little behind his ears, onto the exposed skin of his chest where the top two buttons of his shirt were open, and then on each wrist. He set the bottle back down on the dressing table, and rubbed his wrists together as he walked to the closet. He slipped his feet into a pair of black loafers and headed downstairs.

Halfway down the steps, the deadbolt lock on the front door flipped, and Quatre paused, one foot on the step below him. The knob turned and Trowa stepped in, briefcase under his arm, hair ruffled from the wind. Quatre's breath caught in his chest at the sight of his husband, so strikingly handsome. How did he get so lucky? He waited until Trowa shut the door, not yet noticing him on the stairs, then he launched himself at him. He collided with his chest, Trowa emitting an "oof" in surprise as he found his arms full of bouncy, fluffy blond. 

"Hello to you, too," he chuckled as Quatre kissed his neck that was exposed over the stiff collar of his dress shirt. He happily accepted the kiss as Quatre reached his mouth, slipping his tongue past the plush lips, tasting the mint of his toothpaste. 

"How was your day?" Quatre slid the suit jacket off Trowa's shoulders, reaching up to loosen the knot of his tie. 

"Grueling. I had to follow this dipshit all over the city. I thought I had him. Thought I'd found the drug house he was occupying, but it turned out to be a dead end. I kept losing him." He shook his head, stepping over to the bench beside the door, depositing his jacket and briefcase. "Mmmm...you look and smell good enough to eat," he husked, burying his face in Quatre's neck, lips catching at the soft skin.

Quatre's pride swelled at Trowa's attention and he couldn't have wiped the grin off his face if his life depended on it. He flushed, giggling shyly. "You'll get your chance later."

Trowa pulled back, face full of serious inquiry. "What if I don't want to wait?" He wrapped his arms around his husband's waist, sliding down, cupping the blond's buttocks in big hands. 

Quatre's breath hitched, arousal sparking in his veins, knees weakening. If Trowa wanted it now, Quatre would be unable to resist. There was no question. He stood in Trowa's arms, on the cusp of acquiescence, and he raised his eyes, beseeching his husband, ready for whatever the night threw at him. 

Trowa's eyes were dark, hungry, and Quatre shivered as the searing gaze was directed right at him. Him and only him. He felt the arousal though the heat of his husband's skin. The dominating power behind the muscular body. He reached out, mentally, the tendrils of telepathy brushing against Trowa's mind and he caught a glimpse of the thoughts behind those fiery green eyes. He saw himself, naked on the floor, right there in the entry way, his legs wrapped around his husband's narrow waist as Trowa drove into him again and again. 

There were no words. Quatre understood. He nodded, eyes wide, pulse pounding, and stepped back. He reached up with trembling fingers and popped the buttons of his shirt open, sliding it off his shoulders. Trowa's eyes gleamed with an inner light as he watched the blond strip down before him. Quatre had seen what was in his mind and Trowa's body flared with the heady feeling of power as Quatre obeyed without hesitation. 

He stood before Trowa, stripped of everything, erection bowing up in front of him, and waited for his husband's next move. Trowa pounced then, bringing them both down to the rug and covered Quatre's body with his own. He kissed and nipped and devoured the hot skin beneath him as Quatre cried out in surrender. 

 

* * *

 

 

Quatre hummed as he fixed himself up again in front of the mirror. His body was relaxed, languid, from the vigorous lovemaking, though the skin of his back and ass was sporting a rather impressive rug burn. He leaned forward, looking at himself closely. _Good grief, am I glowing? I may as well tattoo "I just got fucked" on my forehead._  People would know the second they looked at him. Strangely, instead of flushing with embarrassment at the thought, he felt a huge swell of pride, as the man who fucked him was likely the wet dream of everyone he came across. Quatre had the feeling he'd be the recipient of many jealous stares tonight. He grinned at his reflection as he fluffed his hair and spritzed more cologne on himself.

Trowa came out of the shower with a towel around his waist and Quatre admired the view through the mirror. Trowa met his eyes and smiled. "Feel good?"

"Amazing," Quatre gushed, sounding like an infatuated school girl.

Trowa nodded, satisfied. "Good." He went to the closet and pulled out a pair of pants and a shirt, dropped them onto the bed, and fetched a pair of underwear from the dresser. The towel fell away and Quatre was content to watch as Trowa got dressed. The large cock that had just been inside him rested between his husband's powerful thighs. Quatre hoped he'd get another round of it later that night.

Trowa slid on a silk shirt, similar to Quatre's, but was instead a deep green. He buttoned it, turning towards the mirror, and ran his fingers through his damp, brown hair. He swiped his wallet, phone, and keys from the top of the dresser, stuffing them into his pockets, and held out his hand to Quatre. "Ready?"

"Sure am." Quatre took his husband's hand and they headed down the stairs and out to the car. 

It was summer in London and the air was warm, slightly humid. They rode through the city with the windows down, wind blowing through their hair. Quatre kept his hand on his husband's leg as Trowa drove them to the trendy French restaurant Quatre loved. He could practically feel the hearts in his eyes as it seemed this day couldn't get any better. Trowa's fingers brushed against his own before weaving them together and holding on tight.

"Penny for your thoughts."

"Hm? Oh," Quatre swung his head away from the window to face his husband. Trowa kept his eyes on the road, but Quatre could feel his attention focus on him. "I was just thinking about how this day started out so bad, but is ending so wonderfully." 

Trowa brought their joined hands up to his mouth, pressing his lips to Quatre's knuckles. His eyes slid from the road for a brief second to glance at the blond, smiling warmly. "It's not over yet."

Quatre grinned and looked back out the window. He felt new, reborn almost. It reminded him of their first date, only better. He'd been so excited. Back then, their feelings were so strong, but they didn't really know what to do with them. They'd both been so immersed in the war, never really having the time, or opportunity for romance, even though the interest was there. The attraction undeniable. It felt like they were constantly skirting on thin ice. In the end, Trowa had fled, too overwhelmed by his feelings to know how to act on them. It was six months before Quatre saw him again. The reunion had been awkward and they'd parted ways after a quick kiss and a rough fumbling of hands and teeth. 

This pattern continued where Quatre didn't see Trowa, or hear from him, for months on end. That was, until seven years ago, when Trowa showed up on Quatre's doorstep. Quatre had been exhausted after spending the better part of twenty four hours fighting with representatives of the Earth Sphere over budget cuts for colony reconstruction. He hadn't slept, barely had time to eat a few bites. He'd been prepared to tell whoever was at the door to fuck off. He was mildly surprised to find his wayward lover standing there with a contrite look on his face and a bouquet of red roses in his hand.

But Quatre was far beyond his threshold of dealing with this roller coaster ride of a relationship. He almost slammed the door in Trowa's face. A booted foot wedged itself into the doorjamb and Trowa stuck the hand holding the flowers in through the gap with a, "Quatre, can we talk?"

He'd reluctantly let him in, not really in the mood to discuss the status of their love affair, such as it was. He took the flowers and picked at the leaves as Trowa poured his heart out to him. He'd told him how he'd been so afraid to address his feelings, afraid of screwing up what they had, but that he was ready. Ready to have the life he knew they both had wanted since the beginning. In the end, Quatre had slapped him, overcome with emotion, tears streaming from his eyes.

They'd kissed for a long time in the small entryway of Quatre's apartment, clothes falling away and dropping onto the floor as years worth of pent up love, passion, and frustration reached its boiling point. They fucked on the leather couch in the living room, and Quatre wept from the sensory overload of feelings as Trowa let him into his heart and mind.

Quatre woke up that morning, prepared to face an empty bed, an empty life. But Trowa was there, curled around his back, strong arms holding him against a warm chest. In the months that followed, Trowa barely left his side, promising Quatre with his words, his mind, his body, that he wasn't going anywhere.

It hadn't been perfect. Of course, nothing was, but they'd made it work. Their love, their devotion to each other getting them through the rough patches, and they always emerged from the other side with their bond stronger than ever. 

The car slowed as the traffic began to back up. There was a blare of horns as the jam came to a complete stop. Trowa cursed, craning his neck, sticking his head out the window to see what the problem was.

"Accident?"

"I can't tell," Trowa said. 

Quatre could hear shouting now and he leaned out his window. Up ahead, about fifty meters, or so, he could see a crowd of pedestrians. He spotted a few signs. The shouting grew louder as the group advanced towards them, blocking traffic. As they got closer, Quatre recognized it as chanting. 

"What the hell is this?" Trowa pressed his hand on the horn. 

Dread formed in the pit of Quatre's stomach, uncurling and spreading through his limbs. "It's a protest." One sign caught his eye as it bobbed above the crowd and he knew he would be seeing that sign, burned onto the back of his eyelids for days, weeks to come. 

_Newtypes burn in Hell!_

 


	6. Chapter 6

The mood was sullen when Trowa and Quatre walked through the front door of their home three hours later. It took them more than an hour to get to the restaurant and probably would have taken longer if not for Trowa's exceptional driving skills. The protesters were abundant and they were angry, filling the streets with their outrage and their propaganda.

Dinner had been quiet, the atmosphere around them pregnant with tension and uneasiness. Quatre never touched his  _Coq au Vin Jaune_ and Trowa could only stomach a few bites of his own meal. They'd left after an hour, packing up their leftovers and deciding to just head home. Mercifully, the ride back was not as chaotic since the protesters were mostly gone, continuing their march through the city. Only a few stragglers remained behind and traffic had picked up almost back to normal. 

Quatre was taken back in time to the protests against his family during the war. L4 had been a hostile place for the Winners at the time. Those protests also led to the death of his father and the permanent brain damage done to his oldest sister from the blow to the head and spine she'd taken in an effort to protect her baby brother. Quatre was still riddled with guilt despite Trowa's insistence that it was not his fault. She'd been a brilliant doctor and she was now confined to her home, wheelchair bound, under round-the-clock care. Quatre had seen to it that she was looked after by the best doctors and nurses. He and some of his other sisters rotated extended visits with Iria several times a year. He'd learned how to properly bathe and feed his convalescent sister and actively participated in her physical, occupational, and speech therapies.

He remembered how alone he'd felt and so very, very angry. Betrayed by his own people, he'd unleashed a monster within himself so malevolent, he often lapsed into deep bouts of depression at the memories. That he had been capable of something like that, he was often paralyzed with the fear that he could do it again someday. The night terrors had gotten better over the years, but he still had them occasionally, waking from a dead sleep, unable to breathe as he watched Trowa, the one person he loved the most, drift in the cold, dark void of space, forever beyond his reach. Icy fingers would wrap around his neck and _squeeze_ , the Heero in his dream making good on his promise to kill him. 

Was he any better than these people? Had he not done much of the same in his need for revenge? In fact, hadn't he done worse?

He sunk down onto the plush sofa in their living room with a heavy sigh, accepting the glass of Merlot Trowa handed him. He sipped it, the burn of the alcohol welcoming to his frayed nervous system, and closed his eyes, rubbing his temple. Trowa sat beside him and set his own glass on the table. He felt his husband's hand curl around the back of his head and pull him into a strong shoulder. He went willingly, burying his face into Trowa's neck, weary and exhausted. Trowa had forgiven him, so why couldn't he forgive himself?

Trowa pressed his lips to the side of Quatre's head. "Hey," he whispered.

"Mmm..."

"It's going to be okay."

Quatre pulled his head back, searching the beautiful green eyes he loved so much. "You don't believe that."

"No," Trowa shook his head, eyes firm. "No, I don't. I _know_ it. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Tears stung behind Quatre's eyes and he blinked them back, breathing heavily through his nose. He raised a hand to his forehead, rubbing in frustration. "I have to call Une."

"I know. Just relax for a bit. You're still very stressed out."

Quatre raised a brow at his husband. "Since when did you become the psychic one?"

"It doesn't take a telepath to know when you're stressed. Besides, when it comes to you, I've always had some sort of extrasensory perception." He tucked a lock of blond hair behind Quatre's ear. Quatre nodded, looking down.

"I know you have." He took another sip of wine and leaned his head onto the broad shoulder. "I still don't know how you knew where to find me back on the Libra."

Trowa's shoulder lifted slightly. "I don't either. I just knew and I knew you were in trouble. The only thing I could think about was getting to you. You scared me. Especially when you collapsed back at the hangar. I thought I was going to lose you."

"Who knew getting stabbed with a rapier would hurt so much?"

Trowa chuckled. "I remember when I was taking care of Heero, after he self-destructed. He has something, too, I think. Some kind of empathy. Somehow...somehow he knew that I'd wanted to end my life at the time..." Quatre set his wine glass down and wrapped his arm around his husband, deeply disturbed, wanting to comfort. "He told me," Trowa laughed again, shoulders shaking, "He told me, "It hurts like hell.""

Quatre's burst of laughter was muffled as he turned his face into his husband's warm chest. It wasn't a funny situation, but you could always count on Heero not to mince words. "I can totally hear him say that." 

"He does have a way of getting right to the point. Decorum is not his strong suit."

"It's a good thing he has Duo to soften those edges."

Trowa stroked his head, the action was soothing to both of them. "It's a good thing I have you to soften mine."

Quatre smiled, flattered. He breathed in deep, savoring the warm, comforting scent of soap, detergent, cologne, and Trowa's own unique smell. He felt the heavy beat of his husband's heart beneath his cheek and reminded himself that no matter what happened, right now he was here, safe, in Trowa's arms. 

Still, there was an unsettling knowledge that Trowa had not yet spoken of, but was front and center in his mind. Quatre caught it easily and wondered if Trowa was deliberately leaving it open because he didn't want, or didn't know how to verbalize it. Quatre voiced it for them both. "She knows, doesn't she?"

His suspicion was confirmed when Trowa dipped his chin in response. Quatre groaned. Another hurdle in this already complicated mess. But, Trowa was quick to reassure him. He cupped the blond's face with warm, dry palms. "Hey, she's not going to say anything."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I explained to her in no uncertain terms that she would deeply regret it if she did." Trowa's eyes gleamed and Quatre was reminded of his husband's skills, his war record. Trowa hadn't been called The Silencer during the war for nothing. Quatre felt his anxiety fade, if only slightly. 

"How did she even know?"

Trowa snorted. "Apparently, she's either a very experienced hacker, or she knows someone who is."

"Are you telling me that _that_ woman is capable of stealing information that is classified above Top Secret?" Quatre laughed at the preposterous idea. "I find that hard to believe."

"You know better than anyone how important it is to not underestimate people."

That sobered Quatre. Trowa was right. He knew all about being underestimated. It happened all the time. It was difficult to look at someone like Quatre and believe he was capable of even half the things he'd accomplished in his twenty eight years. He sighed, leaning his head back on the couch cushions. "I suppose you're right." He shot his husband a wry glance, lip curled in a smirk. "She's really got it out for me, doesn't she?"

But Trowa wasn't amused. His eyes were sharp and determined. The soldier in him had been activated, treating any and all threats as high priority. Quatre had seen Trowa in soldier mode only one other time since the war and that was when his sister Cathy had been robbed at gunpoint while the circus was traveling through L2. Duo had provided an intricate layout of the colony and pinpointed where the most dangerous gangs were located. In less than twenty four hours, Zero One and Zero Three found the culprits and disposed of them, quick, clean, efficiently, and permanently.

Quatre had no doubt that Edna Seigried would live, or not live, to regret her decision to share the information she had, if she was stupid enough to do so. Still, his approach was more diplomatic. He chugged the remains of his wine, set the glass on the table, and stood up. "I really need to call Une."

Trowa nodded in affirmation. "I'm going to contact Wufei."

"Isn't he in Shanghai with Sally?"

"Yes, but I think he should be informed of what's going on." He pulled his phone out and wandered into the kitchen. 

Quatre retrieved his own phone from his pocket and pressed the speed dial button for General Une's direct line at Preventer's Headquarters. After two rings, a frazzled-sounding Une barked into the phone. " _What!_ "

Quatre was accustomed to the brash woman and took it in stride. "Good evening, General. This is Quatre Winner."

He could hear voices in the background as Une paused, then said, "Oh, yes. Hello, Mr. Winner. I suppose I know why you're calling. We're in a heap of shit over here." There was another pause and a muffled shout, "I'm. On. The. Phone. Get _out!_ " Quatre chuckled and Une returned a moment later. "Sorry. Like I said, it's a mad house over here."

"Is this as bad as I think it is?"

He could feel the General's uncertainty over the phone. "I'm afraid so. This is escalating further than we originally thought. People are angry and for some reason, Parliament is encouraging it. Councilman Zander, the one whose son was killed, has been getting people really riled up. I've been on the phone with the Prime Minister. He says people have the right to protest, which I'm aware of, but he doesn't seem to recognize the very anti-Newtype mob mentality that is starting to take over."

"Oh, God..."

Une's voice was hushed, urgent. "I should warn you now, please be careful. It's extremely dangerous for Newtypes right now. I'm sure I don't have to tell you this, but if there was any reason to keep your...gifts...under wraps, now is the time." Quatre felt her hesitation, a heavy silence before her next words. "There's talk, Quatre." 

That familiar dread was back, like a black void deep in his gut. "What kind of talk?"

Quatre had to strain his ears to catch what Une was saying as she was practically whispering. "I've heard a rumor, just something in passing, not anything to get too worried about yet, but I think you should know. I heard someone mention something about camps."

"Camps?"

"Imprisonment camps. Internment camps -"

"You mean concentration camps."

She was hesitant, not wanting to vocalize it, but he knew she agreed. "Yes, most probably. Like I said, it was just something someone said, it's not a running theme, at least I don't think it is. Just please be careful, Quatre."

It took tremendous will power to slow his pounding heart. He felt sick, the wine churning in his stomach like hot lava. He swallowed down the burning lurch of his esophagus and forced himself to speak. "Okay, I will. Keep me posted."

"I will. I will call you in a few hours. Hopefully, this will have died down somewhat by then. I'm working with the Prime Minister to establish a peaceful resolution to all this. How's Trowa?"

"He's fine. He's on the phone with Agent Chang."

"Yeah, and it just so happens that two of my best Preventers are on vacation at the moment," she sighed, aggravated. 

Quatre chuckled, despite there being nothing humorous about the situation. It came out lifeless, hollow. "Isn't that always the way?"

"No doubt Trowa has convinced him to come back."

"I hope not. Wufei and Sally deserve the break. I'd hate to have them come home early, especially if there's no reason to."

"Good ol' Quatre. Always thinking of others." Une laughed fondly. He huffed slightly, not sure if he was being mocked. "Okay, well...I'll call you soon and hopefully I'll have better news."

"Sounds good. Thank you, General."

He hung up and just stood silently, listening to the ticking of the Grandfather clock and the soft murmur of Trowa's voice as he spoke to their friend. Quatre prayed to a god he didn't believe in that this wouldn't escalate into something beyond their control. 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Trowa was vehemently against Quatre showing up to the press conference. His anxiety over the safety of his husband was growing exponentially with each passing hour. The protests had doubled since last night and they seemed to be getting more and more violent. Stories were breaking about those who were either known Newtypes, or suspected of being one, being beaten in the streets and a few had disappeared completely.

Law enforcement and Parliament, with the exception of Zander, who seemed to be on a one-man mission to invoke rioting and violence against Newtypes, were urging people to stay calm, to protest peacefully, and not engage in any illegal activity. Downtown London was immersed with loud, angry protesters, and an increasing number of police. Vandals were out in full-force, breaking windows, flipping cars, and setting fire to dumpsters. 

He'd essentially been glued to the telescreen trying to keep himself up-to-date on the news. At the latest, some of the demonstrators had been spotted throwing rocks and bottles at the officers who'd been deployed to try to keep tensions under control. There were a number of already-known Newtypes speaking out against the violence, urging any and all other Newtypes to steer clear of the area, take refuge inside their homes, and to not engage in any counter-demonstrations. 

Wufei had cursed, rather colorfully, when Trowa called him to let him know what was going on. He'd said he would call Une and then he and Sally would likely be heading home early. Quatre was not happy about that, but Trowa was secretly relieved. This was spiraling out of control and they would need their best and brightest to tackle this issue and bring about a peaceful resolution. 

Earlier that afternoon, Parliament and the Preventers had notified the public of an upcoming press conference that would take place that evening, and Quatre, stubborn as a mule, insisted he attend, despite Trowa's attempts to talk him out of it. To be honest, he was terrified. Terrified that they would be attacked on the way there, attacked while they were there, attacked on the way home. Call him paranoid, but he didn't want to take any chances when it came to the safety of his husband. But Quatre was hell-bent on doing what he could, using his extensive negotiating experience as a colony representative to try and bring about an end to the violence. 

Trowa knew he'd lost the battle before it even began. Quatre would never allow himself to be kept away when people needed help. And staying out of something that deeply involved his people was tantamount to criminal, in his opinion. They'd argued about it for the better part of the afternoon, Quatre narrowing his eyes and stomping from the room when he'd caught Trowa thinking about just tying him to a chair until this blew over. 

Currently, Quatre was pacing a hole in the living room floor, trying to convince Duo that he and Heero did not need to fly all the way out there from San Francisco. Trowa smirked. If anyone could out-stubborn Quatre, it was Duo. 

"Duo, seriously. It'd probably be over by the time you got here. What could you even do about it anyway?"

Trowa wanted to interject, as he watched molital cocktails bounce off the shields of the riot police, that that probably wasn't an accurate representation of when this was likely to end. Apparently, Duo thought the same.

"I - I know it looks bad, Duo, but - No... _no!_ I just don't want you guys to come all the way out here for nothing - Yes, I _know_ it doesn't look like nothing, but -"

Trowa watched a police car being rocked, then tipped onto its side by a group of teenagers. Ah, yes. The hoodlums were out to play. It was like they just sat around waiting for something like this to happen so they could go out and cause trouble. Then, there was the more hardcore subgroup of rabble-rousers, the anarchists. Trowa knew that the normal trouble makers were quite different from the anarchists. Everyday, run-of-the-mill rabble-rousers were simply opportunists and often just did it for fun. Anarchists were organized. Their demonstrations were premeditated, well-thought out beforehand, and usually had a specific cause behind it. They were also much better at not getting caught. 

It seemed Quatre realized he was not going convince Duo not to come. He sighed, resignation in the slump of his shoulders. "Fine. Do what you want. I suppose I'll see you soon then." He hung up and tossed the phone down on the couch, glaring at Trowa as if this was _his_ fault. 

"What? I didn't tell him to come." 

"You're glad he is, though."

"Is that so bad?"

"Trowa," the blond threw up his hands. "I don't want our friends to be involved in this and possibly get hurt."

"Sounds familiar."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It _means_ that's exactly how I feel about _you_ getting involved." Quatre opened his mouth to argue, but Trowa shut him down before he could get a word out. "And don't you _dare_ try to tell me it's different."

Quatre seemed to think better of it, his mouth snapping shut. He dragged himself over to the sofa and dropped down with a groan, head in his hands. "This sucks."

Trowa walked over to him and knelt down at his feet, placing his hands on the blond's knees. "Baby, there's nothing wrong with wanting to protect those we love. Just understand that that's exactly what _I'm_ doing. I'm trying to protect _you_."

"But -"

"No, no "buts". Yes, it's risky for anyone to be out in this, but the one who faces the most danger is you."

Quatre studied him, read him easily. "You're scared."

Trowa snorted. "I'm terrified! I'm afraid to let you out of my sight. I'm afraid to let you step one foot out that door. If anything were to happen to you..." He shook his head, stomach twisting at the thought. "I don't know what I'd do."

Quatre's eyes softened. He reached out to stroke a sharp cheekbone. "I love you."

Trowa placed his hand over the blond's, turning his head to plant a kiss into the warm palm. "I love you, so much. More than anything." There was a catch to his voice, a wave of emotion. "I'm so scared I won't be able to keep you safe."

Nodding, Quatre leaned forward, pressing his lips against Trowa's forehead. "I know. I'm scared, too. But can you understand why I have to do this? These are my people and they've done nothing to deserve this. I can't just sit by while this hate, this...this _injustice_ goes on. I'm in a position where I can make a difference and I'd never be able to live with myself if I didn't at least _try_."

He sighed. "Yes, I can understand that. And I know what you're capable of accomplishing. I know you're not some delicate flower who can't take care of himself." Winking, he said, "I know firsthand how badass you can be."

Quatre tipped his head back, laughing. "And don't you forget it."

Trowa turned serious. "But I also want you to defer to my judgment. I know you don't always see the big picture -" He put a hand up when Quatre opened his mouth to argue. "Let me finish. When you are passionate about something, you don't always see when a situation has put you at risk. Remember Oslo?"

Quatre's mouth opened, closed, then turned down in a pout. He slumped back against the couch. "That's a low blow, Trowa."

"But it's true," He tried to catch the blond's evasive eyes and he knew that Quatre knew he was right. Quatre had taken a bullet in the back four years ago when fighting the good fight for proper colony representation within the Earth Sphere Unified Nations. He'd been so focused on the cause itself, he never noticed when his opponents tried to eliminate him, permanently. Lucky for Quatre, Trowa had forced him to wear Kevlar. If not for that, the bullet would have lodged into his heart. He'd have been dead before he hit the ground. That vest was the only reason he was still alive. Trowa continued, "It's okay that you are so passionate about fighting for the right causes, but you need to remember to keep your eyes open, and to watch your back."

Quatre looked troubled, defeated. "Yeah, I know. You're right."

"You deferred to my judgment back then, you need to do it now. I'm only trying to look out for you and with me around, you have a more objective perspective of what's happening around you. I know it can get a little confusing when you're surrounded by a bunch of people who are constantly thinking a whole mess of things all at once."

That was true. Though Quatre had gotten better at tuning out the blaring thoughts of people around him, exceptionally large crowds still tended to give him a terrible headache, and made him particularly grouchy and noncommittal for the rest of the day. It often took him hours on end, lying in their dark bedroom trying to sort through the sensory overload, separate his own thoughts from everyone else's, and compartmentalize them. Then, he'd sleep it off like a nasty hangover. He imagined this press conference would result in much of the same. 

Whether or not this murder was actually committed by a Newtype, which was yet to be determined as this Newtype was only a suspect, it didn't matter. Murders happened all the time all over the world. Why someone had to suddenly decide that all Newtypes were a threat to people everywhere just because one _may_ have committed a crime, was beyond him. And it angered him, _infuriated_ him that this was still an issue. People always needed a boogyman in their lives. Always singling out some minority, or another and giving them imaginary horns and a forked tail. Something they could tell urban legends about and use to frighten their children into behaving. Something they could look down their noses at so they could feel superior about their own shortcomings. Human history had a long, extensive rap sheet of treating specific demographics as a stain on their societies. People of color, people of specific religions, people of specific sexual and gender preferences...the list just went on and on.

Now, it was Newtypes who were treated as subhuman. The kind of people who would make men usher their wives away, or women to clutch their purses and their children in fear of some perceived crime against them. That Newtypes possessed abilities that the rest of the populace didn't have, meant they _must_ have ulterior motives. They must be using their gifts for evil deeds.

Quatre remembered overhearing a couple of women in a cafe a few years ago, when dining with Trowa. One of their children had been acting up and Quatre heard one of the women scold the child with a story of how the "Space People" would come for them if they didn't behave. Quatre's stomach had turned queasily, appetite gone, and he asked Trowa to take him home where he'd locked himself in the bedroom for the rest of the day. No matter how hard Trowa tried, he just couldn't break the funk Quatre had worked himself into. When he'd finally emerged later that evening, they talked extensively, Trowa assuring him that there were always going to be ignorant people and there was nothing Quatre could do to change that. 

Quatre disagreed, though. There was something he could do. Raise awareness, fight for Newtype acceptance. After all, nowadays, being a person of color, or being gay, or transgender, was perfectly normal. No one batted an eye. That was because people before them had shed blood, sweat, and tears in the fight for equality. Maybe someday, people could evolve out of needing an imaginary savior, or villain in their lives. One could always hope. 

He checked his watch. "We should go. The press conference starts at eight. I'd imagine it'll take some time to get there. Duo said they were hopping on a flight first thing in the morning. They're going to stay with us. Is that okay?"

Trowa nodded. He reached forward, cupping the blond's face between his hands. "Are you sure about this?" Even though he knew Quatre had made his mind up, he had to ask. Had to hope against hope that maybe, Quatre had decided to play it safe for once.

Quatre smiled gently, reading the trepidation. "I'm sure. This has to be done. You know it as well as I do. I have to do what I can, not only for me, for us, but for future generations of Newtypes. This has to stop."

"I know. And I'm on your side, all the way. I hope you know that, baby."

The blond leaned forward, kissed his husband, so damned in love with this wonderful man. "I do. I know it. And thank you."

"For what?"

"For everything. Supporting me, loving me, being in my life. Just being you."

Trowa took him into his arms, burying his face into the sweet-smelling blond curls. "I'll be by your side the whole time, watching your back. Not because I don't trust you, but because you mean the world to me."

Quatre smiled, nuzzling into his husband's chest. Feeling safe and loved and _trusted_ was the most wonderful sensation in the world. 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

The press conference was, as they typically are, chaotic. Journalists, media representatives, camera men, and prominent bloggers were stuffed inside the small room like a can of sardines. A hundred, or so voices all talking at once, and thinking even louder, was a bit overwhelming for Quatre. Even more so as he was rushed the moment he stepped inside, the attention momentarily focused on him, and he blinked at the rapid sequence of camera flashes as they bounced off his retinas. 

"Mr. Winner, what brings you here tonight?"

"Mr. Winner, what do you think about the developments of this story?"

"Mr. Winner, do you think Newtypes are a danger to our society?"

Trowa stood just behind and to the side of him like a five o'clock shadow and Quatre could feel his discomfort and rising anger as the aggressive journalists continually violated their personal space. He strong-armed a few that got way too close and Quatre stilled him in his quiet subtle way. He laid a soft hand over Trowa's and turned to address the reporters.

"I'm here because I want to see an end to this senseless violence. There is no reason to behave this way. I believe the suspect, Newtype, or not, is entitled to a fair trial, and if he is guilty, then I believe the system will take the appropriate measures to see that justice is served. To answer your question, Mr. Smith, no I do not believe Newtypes are a danger to society. No more than any other person. They are people, just like anyone else."

Another barrage of questions followed his statement and Quatre strained his ears in an attempt to decipher them. 

"Mr. Winner, would you consider yourself a Newtype sympathizer?"

"I would consider myself a human sympathizer. What happened to those kids was a terrible tragedy and my thoughts and prayers go out to their families -"

"Have you spoken to Councilman Zander?"

"I spoke to him the other day and offered my condolences, yes."

"But, Mr. Winner, don't you think, with what we know Newtypes are capable of, that they are potentially dangerous?"

"No more dangerous than anyone else, Madame."

"And what do you plan to do?"

"I plan to work with Parliament and with law enforcement to make sure that we can come to a peaceful resolution. I think it's important not to paint all Newtypes with the same brush. Just because one committed a crime does not mean they are all criminals. Most of them are good, law-abiding citizens."

"Mr. Winner, do you know any Newtypes, and if so, who are they?"

Quatre shot the reporter a derisive look. "Now, you know very well, sir, that even if I did, I am not at liberty to disclose their identities."

"Are _you_ a Newtype?"

Quatre smiled. "I am simply a concerned citizen who doesn't want to see anyone hurt. I want to see an end to the violence and I'm here to do what I can to make that happen."

"Mr. Winner -"

"No more questions," Trowa interjected, elbowing a rather assertive man who kept sticking his camera in Quatre's face. That last question made him nervous. A little too close for comfort.

"Mr. Barton, is it?"

Trowa stared at the reporter who had spoken to him, a little uneasy as the cameras were now focused on him. This was one of the perks of Quatre no longer being in the spotlight day in and day out. He'd hated when the media singled him out, but as the significant other of _the_ Mr. Quatre Winner, he'd often been a top story in the papers. He swallowed down his discomfort.

"Uh...yeah."

"Are _you_ a Newtype sympathizer?"

Yes. "I am simply a proponent of peace. Like Quatre, I just want to see this resolved without anyone else getting hurt."

"Is Mr. Winner protecting someone? Maybe a Newtype friend, or family member?" The reporter's eyes took on a malicious gleam. "Or, a spouse perhaps?"

But Trowa wasn't taking the bait. "No, he's not. I can assure you I am not a Newtype and as far as Quatre protecting someone else, that would be his business and no one else's -"

"So, he _is_ protecting someone?"

"I didn't say that," Trowa said, calmly, though his patience was waning. He knew the game, though he'd never been able to play it as well as Quatre. "If he was protecting someone, which he is not, it wouldn't be anyone else's business but his own."

"Would he tell you if he was?"

Trowa bit his tongue, fighting the urge to grab the camera closest to his face and break it over his knee. The pushiest reporter was a man named Smith. He was a sniveling little weasel who seemed to always be in a perpetual state of sneering. Trowa's fist curled against his side, the desire to punch that rat face into next week becoming overwhelming. Quatre's hand closed over his, taking over, smiling at Smith.

"Yes, I would. We have no secrets. Now, if you'll excuse us..." He expertly elbowed his way through the gaggle of journalists, deliberating evading any subsequent questioning, and Trowa followed, completely awe-struck at how well Quatre handled them. They parted like the Red Sea as he walked through the room. Despite his tiny stature, his presence commanded respect. Quatre knew how to work a crowd. He knew how to diffuse a situation without resorting to anger, or violence. It had been bred into him since birth and it was as natural to him as breathing. 

They took their seats as the group dispersed and within a few minutes, General Une appeared at the podium. The flashes continued, though not as rapid-fire as they had been.

"Good evening, everyone. I'd like to take a moment to recap what has been covered so far. On the night of July seventeenth, a group of teenagers were murdered in the district of West London. They were shot to death in an alley behind a popular nightclub. As stated before, one of the victims was the oldest son of Councilman Zander. As of now, we still do not have a motive to this crime, but we do know that it was not a robbery. We do have a suspect in custody and we are working alongside all of the other branches of law enforcement to make sure that this person is brought to justice, if he is guilty."

"Where is the suspect now?" 

"The suspect is in a secure, non-disclosed location, not only for his own safety, but also the safety of the officers who are with him. We will see to it that he has a fair trial, and if he is found guilty, he will receive the appropriate sentencing."

"Is he cooperating?"

"The suspect is currently not cooperating. We have experts working with him to see if we can get any more information."

"What are his Newtype abilities?"

"I am not at liberty to disclose that."

"Has he been in contact, or was he working with any other Newtypes?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"General, there's been a rumor of Newtype sleeper cells. Is there any credence to this?"

"There is no evidence to indicate any kind of Newtype underground organization, no."

"People are scared, General, and angry. What do you plan to do to ensure the safety of the public?"

"I can assure you the public is safe. Newtypes are not a danger to anyone. We believe this crime has no correlation to the fact that the suspect was a Newtype. It is, we believe, irrelevant to the case. This person simply committed a terrible crime, and may have just as easily done so were he not a Newtype."

"But, you aren't sure of that."

It wasn't a question, and Une paused, shooting the reporter a mild glare. "There is enough evidence to indicate that the suspect is dealing with some serious personal issues -"

"Related to him being a Newtype?"

She sighed. "No, not necessarily. And quite frankly, I'm a little disturbed at the media's and the public's obsession to tie this crime in with the fact that he's a Newtype. People commit crimes everyday. People who are not Newtypes. And Newtypes can have personal problems, or mental issues that do not have any relation to their Newtype abilities. I don't see what is so difficult to understand about this."

"But, isn't it true that Newtypes often have more mental issues than those who are not Newtypes?"

"There could be a variety of reasons behind that. The most obvious one being that Newtypes face more prejudice and bigotry than those who are not. They are, on the whole, paid less, turned down for jobs more often, refused service. The incidents of violent crimes against Newtypes are much higher than any other violent crime committed against a specific demographic. I'm not sure why you're not focusing on that. I seem to remember very little coverage of the young boy who was beaten to death by his classmates for being a Newtype. Instead, what I _did_ see was a lot of victim-blaming."

"General, Councilman Zander appears to have taken it upon himself to launch a campaign against Newtypes. What do you think about that?"

"With all due respect to Councilman Zander, I cannot support what he is doing. He's had a terrible loss and my heart goes out to him and his family, and indeed all of the other families as well. I can understand his anger, but inciting violence against innocent people is not the answer."

"He has spoken out about setting up camps for Newtypes. A place where they can live without needing to come in contact with the general public. What do you think about that?"

Une shot the reporter an incredulous look. "Are you seriously asking me that? What do I _think_ about it? I think that's preposterous. It's barbaric. You are talking about imprisoning innocent civilians and anyone who thinks that's a good idea should be drawn and quartered!"

"Careful, General," Quatre whispered under his breath.

"He has a lot of supporters and they are growing by the day. Does that disturb you?"

"Yes, it actually does. I am not insensitive to Councilman Zander's plight, but I believe he is doing the wrong thing. I will speak out about that now, and I will continue to do so."

"Does the rest of Parliament agree with him?"

"Parliament has been very outspoken about not inciting violence, or spreading propaganda. They are not in agreement with him on this issue."

"What do they plan to do about it?"

"They will continue to urge the public to remain calm and will condone any and all illegal activity. Currently, they are working on hate crime legislation designed to protect Newtypes." 

"Councilman Zander is the head of Parliament. Does anyone have the authority to tell him to step down?"

"No, but there are appropriate actions that Parliament can take if they feel he is abusing his power."

"Impeachment can take months, even years. Do they have that kind of time?"

"They will do whatever is necessary to bring about the end to the violence. The Preventers and police are doing what they can to keep these protests peaceful."

"General, there are some well-known and powerful Newtypes who are also speaking out. Have you been in contact with them?"

"A few. We are all working together to resolve this issue. I'd appreciate everyone's cooperation and I urge the public to maintain calm. If you feel you must demonstrate, please do so lawfully. We are initiating a curfew of eight o'clock in the evening to seven o'clock in the morning. Anyone seen out between those times will be apprehended. If you are caught breaking the law by vandalizing property, or assaulting police, or civilians, you will be apprehended. I also urge those who are Newtypes to stay away from these areas until tensions ease. I understand the desire to counter-protest, but for their own safety, I want to request that they avoid any areas that are currently dealing with these riots. Thank you all for coming."

The crowd erupted with more questions and the frantic flashing of cameras, but Une had already stepped away and exited stage left. Quatre leaned over to Trowa, "I want to speak with her."

Trowa nodded, pushing his way through the group of journalists who had suddenly turned on them again. He gripped Quatre close to him as they made their way to the door, shoving a man who grabbed his husband quite hard by the arm. Trowa towered over the man, his voice low and threatening, "Bugger off."

The hallway was mercifully empty but for a few people and Quatre caught Une's retreating back as she headed out the exit. "General!"

She turned, paused, cursed, and walked back towards him. "What the hell are you doing here, Quatre," she hissed.

He was a little taken aback by her ferocity. "I needed to be here."

Une shook her head. "No, you really didn't." She opened a nearby door and pulled him into an empty briefing room. Trowa followed and closed the door behind them. He leaned against it and listened to Une berate his husband. Maybe she could talk some sense into him. 

"Are you crazy, Quatre? Do you know how dangerous it is for Newtypes to be out and about right now?"

"I can't just sit at home and wait for things to blow over."

Une's brows disappeared beneath her bangs. "Why the hell not?"

Quatre looked confused. He glanced at Trowa for a little help, glaring when he realized he wasn't going to get it. He turned back to Une. "I need to help anyway I can."

"What you _need_  to do is not draw attention to yourself. The more you speak out about this and insert yourself into this issue, publicly, the more people are going to suspect that you are one of them."

"I _am_ "one of them", General. So, let them suspect."

"Keep your voice down," Trowa snapped.

Une stared at the blond, shaking her head. "You don't get it, do you? Those well-known Newtypes I was talking about? They have been arrested -"

" _What?!_ "

"The military is becoming more and more involved, thanks to Zander."

"Wh - he can't _do_ that!"

"He's doing it, Quatre. At this rate, it'll take months for the rest of Parliament to impeach him and he's taking more and more executive action by the day."  

Trowa cursed. "So let's take him out."

Une looked at him as if he'd grown a second head. "Are you normally this nuts, or is it just the situation?"

Trowa raised a brow at her. "I could do it. Zero One and Zero Two will be here tomorrow afternoon and Zero Five is on his way back as we speak -"

Une snorted. "You'd have to find Zander first. He's conveniently fallen off the radar. I'm not sure he's even in the country anymore."

Quatre turned on Trowa. "There is no such thing as Zero One, Zero Two, Zero Three, or Four, or Five for that matter," he hissed. "Not anymore. We are civilians now, Trowa!"

"Exceptional times call for exceptional measures," Trowa said calmly, plan already beginning to formulate in his head.

"Are you listening to yourself?! This is not a couple of nobody thugs on L2, Trowa! You're talking about assassinating the head of British Parliament!" 

Trowa stared at his husband, eyes challenging. Quatre threw up his hands. 

"I don't believe this!" He pointed at Trowa. "No. No way. You are not jeopardizing your freedom for this -"

"The longer we allow this to go on, it will jeopardize _your_ freedom, possibly even your life," Une interjected.

Quatre stared at her, unable to believe what he was hearing. "I cannot believe you are taking this seriously. You're the head of the most prestigious law enforcement agency in the world -"

"Who's finding her authority being taken away little by little everyday. Quatre, by speaking out against Zander, I am at risk of losing my job. If things continue to get worse, I could face incarceration -"

Quatre didn't know what to say to that. He could only gape as the reality of the situation clicked in his head. Zander was taking over. He was employing every executive action he possibly could to remove people from their positions who didn't agree with him. His opponents were being arrested. He was using his power as the commander of the military to enforce his Draconian authority. He was declaring war on Newtypes. This was spiraling out of control much quicker and much, much worse than he'd thought.

"Quatre," Une grasped him by his arms, eyes firm, but resigned. "I'll do what I can, but the best thing you can do right now is go home. And stay there. I will call you if and when I need you, but you cannot risk yourself like this. It is far too dangerous."

"Listen to her, baby. _Please_." 

Quatre turned to Trowa, his breath catching at the pleading look in his eyes. This wasn't just a concerned husband anymore. This was the head of Preventers advising him to lay low. He didn't want to admit it, but...maybe Trowa had been right about him not seeing the big picture when he was passionate about something.

Une raised her eyes to look at Trowa. "Take him home and keep him there. I feel a little better knowing Chang and Po will be back by morning and I'm glad Yuy and Maxwell will be here, too. Quatre, we can hope for the best, but we have to expect the worst."

A frown burrowed between his brows. This went against everything he was and he had to fight an internal battle at the thought of leaving it to someone else. At least for a little while. "Keep me posted."

Une nodded. "I will. Like I said, I will call you if I need you, but please try to remain out of the spotlight for now. Okay?"

He sighed, not liking this one bit. "Okay."

"Good. I'll talk to you soon. I'm going to Parliament to try to see if anything can be done to override Zander's actions."

"Be careful, General." That familiar dread was back, gnawing through his stomach like a flesh-eating bacteria. 

" _You_ be careful."

"I will," he nodded as Trowa took his elbow, guiding him out the door. Trowa glanced at Une over his shoulder. Her eyes communicated her thoughts and Trowa read them clearly. They were both on the same page.

_Lay low. If I find out where Zander is, I'll give you the coordinates. Just try not to get caught._

Trowa's head dipped once and he left to take his husband home.

 


	9. Chapter 9

"Hey, buddy! How's it hangin'?" Duo slapped Quatre on the back as he stepped through the front door, a little too hard. Quatre coughed, momentarily losing his wind. 

"It's hangin' just fine, Duo. How are you? Did you have a good flight?"

"Eh, you know how commercial flights are. Kids screaming, people puking, snoring, eating peanuts too loudly. There's always a guy who doesn't bother to shower before he gets on the transport, y'know?" He shuddered. "Help me with this bag, will ya?" He slid the strap off his shoulder and into Quatre's hand who nearly dropped it.

"Good Lord, Duo! What the hell's in this thing?"

"Oh you know, the usual. Guns, bombs, a kilo, or two of cocaine, some dildos for later..."

"It's a wonder you haven't been brought up on federal charges."

Duo grinned and winked. "I'm a persuasive guy." 

Quatre moved aside to let Trowa and Heero in with the rest of the bags. There were several of them. Just how long were they planning on staying anyway?

Duo had called from the airport, bitching and moaning about the prospect of having to ride in a cab. Laughing, Quatre had sent Trowa over to pick them up.

"I'm not sure I should leave you alone."

"Trowa, please. I think I'll survive the next half hour without you playing house bouncer."

Trowa shot his husband a look that indicated he was not amused. Quatre all but shoved him out the front door. "Go! Before Duo calls me again to whine in my ear."

"Lock the doors?"

Exasperated, Quatre rolled his eyes and nodded. "Yeah, yeah. Of course I will."

And he did, actually quite nervous. He didn't tell Trowa, but he was worried that Edna Seigried might end up spilling the beans, despite Trowa's threat. He supposed Trowa was worried about it, too, and probably refrained from saying anything for the same reasons Quatre was. It was an elephant in the room that neither of them wanted to address. And if she'd garnered information about that, then there was no limit to what she could find out about either one of them. That was, if she hadn't already. 

Une had left last night for Parliament to try to find a way to stop Zander and Quatre waited anxiously by the phone all evening, finally nodding off with his head on the arm of the couch.

He'd taken the phone to bed with him in the hopes of hearing some developments from Une. Preferably good ones. But, she'd been unnervingly silent and when Quatre had tried to call her first thing in the morning, she never picked up, which was rare. The news from the media was not faring well either. Zander was holed up in an unknown location, but he was steadily seizing more control of Parliament and the military. 

Wufei and Sally arrived that morning and told them that the Preventers had been virtually stripped of authority, mainly due to the fact that General Une was an outspoken opponent of Zander. Wufei was furious. He and Sally were at a proverbial crossroad, no longer having any ability to do their job and trying to keep their mouths shut about it in order to escape apprehension. Much of the regular police force was working in solidarity with the military who was taking their orders from Zander. 

Word on the street was those camps were being initialized, though Wufei couldn't be sure where yet, and Newtypes were being yanked off the streets and out of their homes. They were processed at the local jails, but instead of remaining there, they were carted off somewhere, possibly to the locations where the camps were being set up. At least that's what Quatre hoped. His worst fear was that they were simply executing Newtypes, possibly even executing those who were only suspected of being one.

Trowa was pissed, to say the least. He'd been swearing off and on for most the day and was in the process of pulling his weapons out of the attic and prepping them for use, should it become a necessity. Quatre was currently carrying which he hadn't done in years. He sincerely hoped he wouldn't have to use it. 

Wufei and Sally appeared in the foyer and Duo shot the Chinese man a wide grin. "Wu-man! How's it hangin'?" 

 

Trowa and Quatre fixed up a feast of Shepard's pie and a salad to feed their friends and Quatre's hands shook slightly as he helped prepare the meal.

It was evening now and there was still no word from Une. Quatre cursed, frustrated as call after call went to her voicemail. He had a sinking feeling that something had happened to her. That maybe she'd been arrested. He swallowed down half a glass of Chardonnay in one gulp and felt Trowa's hand on his back.

"Hey. It's going to be okay."

Quatre shot him a nervous smile. "Somehow I doubt that. What are we going to do, Trowa?"

"That's what the guys are here to help us figure out."

"And Sally."

Trowa chuckled. "And Sally."

Duo was in the process of telling some story about a client of theirs who attempted to hold Heero hostage with a toy gun. The man wanted an extra shipment of weapons, one that he'd promised a local militia, but couldn't afford to actually buy. Heero sat with his face in his hands, whether it was from embarrassment of the incident, or because he'd likely heard the same story a thousand times already, Quatre couldn't tell. He figured it was probably both. 

Duo took a sip of his beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "So, then I says, "When do you want the guns?" And the dude's like, "Tomorrow," and I'm like, "The fuck, man. You gotta give us a little notice." You know, trying to buy some time -"

"Uh-huh."

"And he's got this fake gun to Heero's head and Hee-chan's just looking at me like, "Are you finished?" So I says I'm not going to be able to make that possible and you'll just have to kill him, and then Heero just head-butts the dude. Like...just _Wham!"_ He snapped his head back to punctuate and Quatre cringed, absently wondering if Duo just gave himself whiplash. "Blood's flyin' everywhere and the guy's eyes roll back into his head and he just falls, like in slow motion, right off the catwalk and into a dumpster. Fuckin' hilarious."

"That was a riveting story, Maxwell."

Duo held the beer bottle up to his mouth and winked at Wufei. "Why thanks, Chang."

"Duo's stories are always legendary," Quatre piped in as he made the rounds with the wine bottle.

Wufei snorted. "You need to get out more, Winner."

Heero eyed Trowa over the rim of his wine glass. "Debrief."

"Debrief," Duo mocked in Heero's monotone. He leaned over to his lover. "Remember that little talk we had about "people skills"?

Heero shot him a sideways glance, then amended, "Please."

Trowa's hand rested over his wine glass as his eyes met Quatre's across the table. "Well, there's the obvious potential threat that if anyone finds out about Quatre, they could come to arrest him. If that happens, we may have difficulty finding him if what Wufei says about the camps is true."

"You don't have a location?"

Wufei set his fork down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I'm working on finding that out. One possibility is the old retention center about thirty miles away. It's abandoned, but it's got a concrete structure and barbed fences. There's also an old warehouse that might be under preparations to receive these prisoners." 

Quatre shivered when he heard the word "prisoners". He couldn't believe this was actually happening. Innocent people were being taken prisoner. People that had done absolutely nothing wrong. He tipped his head back and finished off his wine. How had things come to this?

"I can map out all the potential locations where they might be held. Of course, the security will be very tight."

"Speaking of security, any word on Zander's location?"

Trowa shook his head. "We can't pinpoint him yet, but yeah, he is likely heavily guarded, and also hiding because he's now made himself a huge target."

"And we can't reach Une," Quatre added. 

Duo's eyes widened. "You can't?"

"She went to Parliament last night to see what they could do. No one's heard from her since," Sally said. 

Heero turned to Quatre. "Does anyone outside this room with the exception of Une and your family know about you?"

He shifted uneasily. "Uh...yeah..."

Trowa spoke up, "A former client of mine is apparently an experienced hacker, or knows someone who is. She not only dug up mine and Quat's war record, but also his medical files. She knows -"

"And she threatened to expose me if Trowa didn't sleep with her," Quatre snorted, still seething over that.

Duo whistled. "Damn, Tro. You're quite the stud, ain't ya?"

Heero focused on Trowa. "Where is she now?"

"I don't know for sure. I closed her case and told her if she knew what was good for her, she'd keep her mouth shut."

Heero grunted and leaned back in his chair. "We can only hope she listens."

"We need to find out what's going on with Une," said Quatre. 

"Yeah, that too." Duo stretched, the back of the chair creaked under his weight. He plopped his elbows down onto the table and picked up his fork. "You need us to give that lady a booster shot?"

"She seemed pretty scared when I threatened her. But, I'll tell you this right here, right now. If she does tell, I _will_ kill her. I'm also going to kill Zander."

"Not without us, you're not."

Quatre closed his eyes, at odds with his pacifistic nature. This was just like the war, not wanting to kill, but knowing he needed to. It was all happening again, this time to prevent a holocaust. There were times for diplomacy and there were times for action. Now was the time for action. They were all going to have to do things they didn't really want to do. It was going to get really ugly really fast. 

"You need to be careful about that. I don't want Une to get hurt."

Heero leveled a steady gaze on him. "We'll do what we can, but we can't promise anything. You know that."

Quatre sighed, "I know that. So, what's the plan? What are we doing? When are we going?"

"We?" Trowa snorted. "No, there's no "we", baby. You're going to L4."

Quatre slapped his hand on the table. "Damn it, Trowa! Stop treating me like a child."

The green eyes hardened. "I'm not treating you like a child. I'm treating you like you're a target. Which you are."

"That doesn't mean there's nothing I can do but go hide until it's over!"

"Actually, it does."

"Uh-oh. Lover's quarrel."

"Shut up, Duo!" 

"Quat -"

"No! I was a soldier, too, damn it. I held my own just fine during the war."

"I know that, baby -"

"Then _why_ won't you let me help?"

"Because - because if you get caught, I'd never forgive myself."

Quatre's eyes softened. God, but he knew about guilt. "Trowa..."

"Quat, I think Tro's right."

Quatre stared at Duo, incredulous. "I cannot believe you just said that to me."

All seriousness now, Duo leaned forward, eyes sober. "If this was a different situation, this wouldn't be an issue, but...You. Are. The. Target. I hate to say it, buddy, but I really think you need to sit this one out."

"Quatre."

He looked over at Heero. Well, damn. If The Perfect Soldier was going to agree with them...

"Do you trust us?"

Quatre blinked, surprised at the question. "Of course I do."

"Then you need to trust our judgment. Including your husband's."

Quatre's mouth snapped shut. He knew he'd lost. He was outnumbered. The case was closed. He glanced at Trowa, noted the slight nod, the pleading his eyes, and slouched back into his chair, defeated. "Fine. I'll go to L4."

"Good man." Duo patted his shoulder. 

"When do I leave then?"

"I'll take you to the transport first thing in the morning." Quatre could see the immense relief in his husband's eyes, heard the soft, _thank you_ , in his head, and felt terrible about putting him through all this. 

They were interrupted by the phone ringing and Quatre jumped up to get it, hoping to God it was Une.

It wasn't. "Is this Quatre Raberba Winner?"

"Yes. Who's this?"

"This is General Une's assistant. I'm sorry she wasn't able to contact you directly, but she gave me a list of coordinates to give you."

Quatre snapped his fingers to get the others' attention and they scrambled up quickly as Quatre put the phone on speaker. Duo jotted down the numbers as Heero zeroed in on the location using his computer. "He's about ten miles outside of Kingston."

"Got it." Trowa left the room to grab the weapons and came back with a large duffel bag. He pulled the guns out and began loading them along with Wufei's help. 

"Is she okay?" Quatre asked the assistant.

"Yes, she's fine. She said she'd get back to you as soon as she can."

He breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay. Thank you so much." He turned to Trowa who watched him sharply, slapping a magazine into his gun. "You're doing this now?"

"The sooner we do this, the better."

Quatre's heart pounded against his rib cage. This was it. But if they succeeded, this would hopefully all be over. He just hoped Une wasn't there, deeply concerned about her safety. "What should I do?"

"Stay here. Sally, stay with him. Here -" Heero handed her a small device with a red button on the side. "Don't call us because it might jeopardize our mission, but if anything happens, press the button. It'll send a signal to this transmitter that I'll keep in my pocket and it will alert me immediately."

She nodded. "How long do you expect to be?"

"Give us a few hours. If you don't hear from us, get a hold of Noin. She'll send reinforcements."

"Okay."

Trowa slung his gun over his shoulder and crossed the room, taking Quatre into his arms and kissing him hard. "You stay here with Sally. No matter what happens, I want you on a flight out of here as soon as possible. You promise me?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, I promise." Quatre embraced him, smoothing a hand down the back of Trowa's head. "Be careful, baby."

"Always am." He smiled and kissed the tip of the blond's nose. He turned to the others, all business, no trace of softness. "Alright, let's go."

"Roger that." Duo followed him out. "Come on, boys. The Councilman's not going to assassinate himself."

"Christ, Maxwell. Keep your damn voice down."

 

It took about forty minutes to find a location where they could hide their vehicle. They parked it under the heavily forested trees and set off on foot towards the complex. They crept along the outermost perimeter and split up, advancing from all four directions. Heero followed an animal path along a small creek, using only the faint glow of the moon to guide him. The area was quiet, suspiciously so. The perimeter should have been guarded, but it wasn't.

He knew something was off before he got anywhere near the complex which was essentially an old, abandoned factory. For one thing, the surrounding area should have been crawling with snipers. Keeping a close eye out, he crept up to the eastern wall and noted the complete lack of activity. He skimmed the edge of the building all the way around to the front, stopping short when a startled Duo aimed his rifle at him. He cursed and lowered his weapon. 

"Sorry, babe."

They stood together on the gravel path that led up to the door. It was dark, quiet, completely absent of people. Heero glanced over at Duo, gun barrel resting on his shoulder. "What do you think?"

Duo looked around, clicking his tongue. "I don't like this."

The aimed their weapons towards the front entrance where the crunch of footsteps echoed distantly off the metal walls inside the building. Trowa emerged a moment later, cursing. He shoved at the door that hung haphazardly on one rusty hinge. It swung violently, then the hinge snapped and the door fell to the ground with a loud bang. "Place is fucking deserted." He kicked an empty can across the vacant lot, swearing between gritted teeth. "Fucking shit."

There was a snap of twigs and they aimed their guns in the direction of the sound, frozen, waiting, trigger fingers steady. Wufei appeared, using his rifle to push aside a tree branch. "There's no one here."

Trowa pulled the paper with the coordinates written on it out of his pocket and unfolded it, flicking on his small flashlight. "Did we get something wrong?"

"Whoa, hang on. Since when do we ever get anything as simple as a location wrong?"

"We don't." Heero turned on Wufei. "Who is this "assistant"?"

Wufei shot him an odd look. "His name is Darren Michaels. He's been on the job for about six months, or so. Decent enough guy, I guess. Why?"

"Does anyone remember this assistant saying their name when they called?"

There was a collective moment of silence. 

Heero grunted. "That's what I thought. We've just been led on a wild goose chase."

Trowa sucked in a sharp breath. He whispered, his voice nearly inaudible. " _No_..."

The device in Heero's pocket buzzed to life and he looked at Trowa, into the suddenly terrified eyes. Heero knew damn well that Sally would never push that button unless the absolute worst was happening. Trowa did, too. He held up the transmitter. "We have problems."

Without a word, Trowa turned and sprinted back the way they came, towards the car. 

"Son of a bitch!" Duo picked up a rock and threw it through a window, the shattering of glass deafening in the quiet night. "Whoever is fucking with us is going to _die_."

Trowa was revving up the car when the other three got there. Heero leaned down until his face with level with the driver's side window. Trowa was in no shape to drive. Heero could feel the fear, the simmering rage that was on the cusp of boiling over. He was gentle as he addressed him, not particularly wanting to get shot tonight.

"Trowa, let me drive."

The feral look Trowa shot him almost made him step back. His eyes were crazed, desperate. Heero tried again. He was slow, careful, gentle. Poking the bear would be an extremely bad idea.

"You are not in your right mind. Let me drive."

Trowa was beyond words, nearly hyperventilating, pupils huge in the dark of night. His senses were on high alert. His sight, hearing, and sense of smell sharpened like the finest razor. His need to get back to Quatre the only priority. 

"Trowa, please."

"Listen to him, Tro. You get us all killed on the way there, you won't be much help to him."

That did it. He slid over to the passenger seat, voice shaking. "Let's go. Now."

Heero jumped in while Duo and Wufei piled into the back and Heero punched the car into gear, hoping against hope that they were not too late.

 


	10. Chapter 10

They returned to the house to find the front door wide open. Weapons out, they scaled the property and peered in through the windows. Furniture was knocked over, items strewn everywhere. The place was was a complete mess. Whatever had happened, there was a fight of some kind. Trowa ran back around and stormed through the open door, shouting Quatre's name.

" _Trowa_ ," Heero hissed. "We need to be sure the place is secure - aw, _hell_..." He ran in behind him, gun at the ready.

There was no sign of Quatre, but Sally was sprawled on the floor, bleeding from a head wound and just beginning to regain consciousness. Wufei rushed to her side, wrapping his arms around her as he helped her sit up. "Baby...oh, God. Are you alright?"

Sally groaned and reached up to gingerly touch her head. "Son of a bitch. They pistol-whipped me."

Duo crouched down in front of her. "You okay, Sal? How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Four."

"A'tta girl."

Wufei brushed her hair away from her face, apologizing when she cringed in pain. "Maxwell, make yourself useful and find a first aid kit."

"Copy that."

Heero and Trowa were searching the house. They could hear the footsteps above them as Trowa checked each of the upstairs rooms. Duo returned with supplies to clean Sally's wound and set to work unwrapping gauze and dipping it in alcohol. Heero walked in a minute later. 

"Doesn't look like anything was taken."

"Except Quatre," Sally muttered. 

Trowa's thundering footsteps sounded down the stairs. He was panting, in a panic. "He's not here. He's not here...Where is he?"

Duo stood up, his eyes cautious, concerned. "He's not here, Tro. Sally says he was taken."

Trowa ran to her, skidding across the wooden floor on his knees. He grabbed her by the arms, despite Wufei telling him to take it easy. "Sally, please. Who was here? What happened?"

"Damn it, Barton. Give her a minute."

Sally laid her hand on Wufei's arm. "It's okay. Just get me some ice and some aspirin for my head." Wufei shot Trowa a warning glance and stood up to fetch them while Duo cleaned her cut. Sally took a deep breath, shaking her head a little to clear it, and looked up at Trowa. Her heart broke at the helpless look in his eyes. They were wild, frantic, but there was also guilt. Guilt that he couldn't protect his husband. Sally was deeply worried about his mental state.

"They came out of nowhere. Smashed the goddamn door in with a battering ram. They jumped through the window, too." She pointed at the large picture window, the glass smashed. The table that stood in front was tipped over and the heirlooms that Quatre had lovingly placed there to display them, broken beyond repair. 

"We had our guns out, but we were surrounded. They came in through the back, through the kitchen -"

"Who were they, Sal?"

She closed her eyes and rubbed her head. "Ugh...Armed Response Unit, I think. I'm not sure. They were buttoned up tight, though. Vests, masks, helmets. They were armed to the teeth, too. Quat and I didn't have a chance. They ordered us to lower our weapons, or be shot. So we lowered them. They came to apprehend Quatre, one guy tried to grab him from behind. Quatre got him in the jaw. I think he broke it -"

"That's my boy." Duo looked like a proud father. 

Wufei came back with the ice, aspirin, and a bottle of water. Sally winced as he pressed the cold pack against her head and she swallowed the pills down quickly. "I tried to stop them and they hit me. When Quatre tried to come to my aid, they hit him. We both went down. They arrested him and took him away."

Heero pressed, "Sally, did they have police markings written on their backs?" 

She took a moment to think about it. "I - don't think so? My memory is a little fuzzy, but I'm pretty sure they were unmarked."

"Did you see their faces?"

"No. Ski masks."

Duo chucked a broken wine bottle across the room. "Fuck."

Trowa was eerily silent as he knelt on the floor. His eyes distant, looking utterly lost. He stood up slowly and walked over to the nearest wall. He screamed in rage, driving his fist through the drywall, knocking framed pictures off, shattering their glass covers. He continued on to the kitchen table and flipped it over, still screaming. Picking up a chair, he smashed it against the wall, the legs cracking and breaking on impact.

Duo stood up, prepared to intervene, his heart aching for his friend. "Tro -"

"Let him get it out, Maxwell. He needs this." Wufei watched as Trowa destroyed his own house, consumed by anger, fear, pain. After punching a few more holes in the walls, he finally collapsed onto his knees, with his back to them, his shoulders slumped, head down. He sucked in a pained breath and it came out in a shaky groan. 

Careful not to startle him, Duo came around and crouched down beside him. Trowa's face was tight, barely controlled. His lips moved and Duo had to strain his ears to hear him. "So stupid...stupid, stupid, stupid. I'm so sorry, baby. I failed you -"

"Tro..." Duo laid a tentative hand on the distressed man's shoulder. "Tro, buddy...we're gonna find him. You didn't fail him -"

"I _did!_ "

"Okay, well...we _all_ did then. But you can't beat yourself up and you can't disappear. Not now. Quat needs you more than ever and you won't be able to help him, or help _us_ help him if you fucking lose your mind now."

Trowa stared at him, tears cresting over his lids. 

"I can't imagine what you're going through right now, man. I don't even want to try. But it's not hopeless. You know what we're capable of. We won two wars when we were in our teens. There's no telling what we can do now." He cupped the back of Trowa's head. "We are going to find him and bring him home. Okay?"

Heero knelt down on his other side, tucking Trowa's head under his arm. Trowa leaned into him and Heero held him as he lost his composure. "You need to listen to Duo. He's right. But, you know we're here for you. You know that right?"

"I know," he croaked, soaking Heero's shirt with his tears. "We gotta find him. We gotta -"

"We will. Hey -" Heero held Trowa's head up, meeting the distraught eyes, his own firm. "We will."

"Has Hee-chan ever steered you wrong, Tro?"

He shook his head, dropping his face to Heero's shoulder. "No."

"But you gotta stay with us, man."

Trowa visibly collected himself, pulling back from Heero's embrace. "Yeah, okay. I'm here."

"Squared away?"

"Yeah. Squared away."

"Good." Duo ruffled his hair and gave him a reassuring smile. "You know we won't rest until we find him."

Sally lifted her head from Wufei's chest. "Wait...what happened with Zander?"

Duo scratched his head. "Yeah...about that..."

"We think we may have been tricked into going out there so they could come get Quatre," said Wufei. 

Sally's eyes widened as she looked at him. "But...Darren...why would he -"

"We're not sure it was him."

"And if it was, he may have been coerced," Heero added. 

Trowa lifted his head from his knees. "Trace that call."

"Yeah, I'm on it." Heero got up to grab his laptop and hooked the phone into it. He pulled up the call log, looking it over carefully. "It came from Preventers Headquarters."

"Voice analysis?"

"Yep. Hang on." Heero ran a recording of the call through the filter of his analysis program and nodded. "It was him."

Wufei cursed. "So, he's either a fucking traitor, or he had a gun to his head when he made the call."

"How did they find out?" Trowa asked, sounding miserable. "How did they know? Who were they?" He looked desperately at Duo, for answers that he knew he didn't have. "I mean I -" He stopped, eyes widening. "That... _bitch_."

"Whoa. Hang on...we don't know it was her yet."

Trowa's head snapped towards Duo. "How the fuck else could they have known?"

Duo held his hands up. "Okay, you're probably right, but there's a chance she didn't tell anyone. We have to be sure before we start spilling blood, Tro. Think about this, okay?"

"I need to know."

"We'll find out how they did, alright? But let's take this one step at a time. We can't afford to make mistakes here. I know how restless you must feel. I feel it, too, but this is too important to go off all half-cocked."

Trowa took a deep breath, logic finally setting in. What he really wanted to do was tear the whole city apart, block by block, with his bare hands. But Quatre's life was at stake and Duo's was right. If he went into this with his emotions driving him, it increased the risk of screwing up, and that could jeopardize Quatre. They needed to go into this with clear heads and careful planning.

Heero was furiously typing into his computer and Duo walked around to watch over his shoulder, curious. "What are you up to, love?"

"I'm hacking into the surveillance satellite to pull up the street level footage. I'm hoping we can figure out who came for him."

He scanned through the files until he found what he was looking for and pulled up the street view. Trowa, Wufei, and Sally gathered around to watch as three dark box vans stopped just down the block from their house. About ten to fifteen figures jumped out of each truck, barely visible in all black, and swarmed around the house.

"Goddamn. I guess that says a lot when they used those kinds of reinforcements to come get him."

Wufei snorted. "I'm willing to bet they know he was a Gundam pilot, hence the extreme measures."

"Gee, you think?"

"Quiet," Heero snapped. He leaned forward, peering into the screen, eyes squinting. After a moment, he pointed as one of the agents turned in just the right way, exposing his back. "There."

"Oh, son of a bitch," said Sally. "I guess they _were_  ARU. Not all of them had that on their backs, though."

"Could be a mix," suggested Wufei.

Heero nodded, thinking that was plausible. "We could have local militias getting involved and working with them as well."

Duo snorted. "Oh, well that's just fucking great."

Wufei let out a frustrated breath. "And this probably means that Une is indeed in trouble. They didn't use her to make the call because they knew she'd never go along with it."

Sally nodded. "She would rather be shot than betray someone's trust, especially a friend's." She turned to Wufei. "I'm tired."

He held her close, trying to quell the curse words that wanted to spring from his lips. "I should take you to a hospital."

"No...no, I'm okay. A little concussed, I think, but I'll be fine. I need to rest. Not sleep, just rest."

"Trowa?"

Trowa seemed distracted, but jolted out of it when he heard his name. He blinked at Wufei with bloodshot eyes.

"Can we use one of your guest rooms so Sally can lie down?"

"Uh...yeah," he rubbed his eyes, trying to shake himself out of his shock. "Yeah, sure. I hope you feel better, Sal. I'm sorry I was so rough with you. I wasn't thinking."

"It's quite alright, hon. I don't blame you, and don't worry, you didn't hurt me, or anything."

Wufei helped her up the stairs, leaning over the banister for a moment. "I'm going to stay with her. Keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn't fall asleep. Just holler if you need me."

Heero grunted in affirmation and turned back to his computer and Duo gave them a salute before plopping down on the couch next to his lover. "So, what's the plan?"

"Well, we can start with the police and work from there. I'll need time to hack into the proper databases before I can extract anything useful. I'm sure there's a dozen, or so firewalls I'll have to crack to get to it." He glanced at Duo. "It'll take a while."

"Yeah, I figured."

"I tried to track the vehicles that were here, but there's a block on their location now. I'll need time before I can find that, too." 

"They knew," Trowa whispered, almost inaudibly.

"What's that, Tro?"

"They knew I was planning on assassinating Zander. How did they find out?" He gazed up at them, his green eyes helpless.

Heero turned to Trowa. "Where were you when you discussed this with her?"

"In a briefing room at Preventers -" Trowa stopped, eyes widening. 

Heero nodded. "And Preventers is under suspicion for sympathizing with Newtypes -"

"Which means the room was likely bugged," Trowa said, realization dawning. "That's how they found out." He buried his face in his hands. "How could I have messed this up so badly?"

Duo got up, sighing, and wrapped his hand around Trowa's arm. "C'mon, buddy. Let's get you some tea. You look like you could use it."

Trowa stood and followed, looking utterly dejected. Duo sat him down at the table and looked through the cupboards. "Let's see...where does Quat keep his tea stash...ah, here we go." He pulled out a box and examined it. "Chamomile. That good? It'll help you relax."

"I don't need to relax. I need to find my husband."

"Tro, you do need to relax. You are in no shape to go tearing through the city right now and you wouldn't even know where to start -"

"i could start with the police -"

"What are you gonna do? Storm the place? Go on a one-man rampage? They'd shoot you dead before you got ten feet inside the building."

Trowa sat back, fingers drumming on the table. "I can't just sit here."

"Yes, you can. And you will if I have to tie your ass to the chair. Quat would kill me if something happened to you while he was gone." Duo walked over to the table and leaned over, looking into Trowa's eyes. "You are not thinking clearly. I'd wager you're not thinking much at all at the moment. You are tired and irrational and so goddamn emotional -"

"Well, of course I am!"

"Hey, I'm not judging. I'm just saying. I know you know as well as I do how that can get you into trouble in situations like this."

Trowa's eyes were desperate as he looked at Duo and Duo's heart hurt so badly for him. If he found out who these bastards were, he was going to skin them alive with his bare hands. "I'm so scared, Duo. I'm so scared for him."

"I know, buddy. So am I. But you know Quat's a fighter just as much as I do. And he's smart as a whip. You know he can take care of himself. And if he ever found out that you were doing this to yourself, or put your own life in danger, especially for him...how do you think he'd feel?"

Trowa squeezed his eyes shut, fighting battles within himself that were as painful as they were contradictory. Duo could sympathize as he was feeling much of the same conflicts. An internal battle waging itself with the need for action now and knowing that they needed to wait to make sure this was done right. It was an agonizing restlessness that itched down to the bone. "Maybe I screwed up because I'm so emotional about this to begin with. I didn't stop to think that the place might have been bugged when I said I could take out Zander. I was consumed by the need, the desire..." He looked helplessly up at Duo, eyes shimmering with tears. "I want his blood. I want his blood so bad I can taste it."

Duo gave him a sad smile, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I know. I don't blame you. And you'll get it, you understand? You'll get it, but only if we do this right, okay?"

Trowa's lip quivered, but his face hardened, expression full of steely resolve. "Yeah. Okay. You're right."

"I'm always right," Duo joked. It earned him a small chuckle. It would have to do. "Now, let's get that tea ready."

Duo prepared mugs for everyone with Trowa's help. He tried to remain upbeat for his friend, but the mood was sullen. He carried two mugs up for Wufei and Sally.

"How's she doin'?"

""She's" doing just fine," Sally said, sitting up with some effort, accepting Wufei's help. "My head feels like tree trunk, but I'll survive." She took the tea and thanked him.

Wufei took his own mug and blew the steam away. "Any breaking news?"

"Nope. Heero's doing his hacker shit. You'll know if there is."

"How's Trowa holding up?"

"He's a hot mess."

Wufei nodded. "Understandable."

"I'm gonna go back down and stay with him. You guys holler if you need us."

"Thanks, Duo."

He went back downstairs to find both his love and his friend sitting on the couch together, sipping tea and talking quietly to each other. He couldn't hear what they said, but that was just as well. This was a moment between them. Duo watched with warm affection as Trowa sniffled and Heero's arm wrapped around him, rubbing his back in soothing circles. He was so glad they came. Trowa needed them desperately and he was sure Quat was also relieved that Trowa wasn't alone. Probably in part to keep him from doing something stupid. 

Heero sensed him and turned, offering his lover a smile, and Duo smiled back with a little wave and came down the rest of the way. "Sorry to interrupt."

Trowa wiped his face quickly. "S'okay."

Heero turned back to his computer. "You two should rest. We'll sleep in shifts. In the morning, we'll have to find somewhere else to stay. They know about us now. It's best if we stay off the grid for a while. It's not safe for any of us to be here."

"I can't rest."

"Tro, no. You have to rest. You are not going to be of any use if you're walking around sleep deprived." Trowa turned despondent green eyes on Duo and Duo relented. A little. "Buddy, I get it. I do. If I was in your shoes, I wouldn't be able to sleep either. But even if you don't sleep, you need rest. I know you know that somewhere in that thick head of yours." He tried for a smile and was vindicated when Trowa's lips curled up, ever so slightly. 

"Yeah. Okay. I'm going to stay down here, though. I can't go up there...not now. Not without -"

"It's okay, buddy. Sleep wherever you want. It's your house. I'll stay down here, too."

Trowa stretched out on one sofa, while Duo flipped the lights and went to the other couch. He laid in the dark, silent but for the faint clicking of Heero's fingers on the keyboard and Duo's soft breaths. The agony in his chest, in his heart, was so overwhelming, he wasn't sure how he was going to get through this. His baby was out there, somewhere, taken prisoner for no other purpose than because he was different. He wondered what Quatre must be feeling right now. What he was enduring. Was he frightened? Probably. But Trowa also knew how strong his Quat was. 

Quatre wasn't the type to lay down and give up and that gave Trowa the strength to go on. He was sure that Quatre, wherever he was, was doing what he could to help those around him, possibly giving the other prisoners strength. That was just who he was. He loved and believed in humanity unconditionally. He never lost faith that people would do the right thing, even if it took them awhile. Quatre always tried to make the best of any given situation. That was one of the things Trowa loved the most about him. Quatre had always been the bright ray of sunshine in his life, his love and devotion a live-giving force to be reckoned with, even when Trowa didn't believe anything could ever be good. 

He closed his eyes, comforting himself with the thought that his husband would fight. Fight for himself and fight for those who couldn't. He would fight to find his way back to Trowa. He would never give up, or give in, and neither would Trowa. They would find each other again and they would put a stop to this, once and for all. He pulled one the couch cushions against his chest, wrapping his arms around it and nuzzled into the other, whispering against the soft fabric. "Just hang on, baby. Stay strong. I will find you and I will bring you home. I love you so much. Stay strong for me, love..."

 

End of Part One.

 


	11. Part Two: Captured

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains molestation and mentions of rape/noncon and sexual slavery.

Quatre came to with a headache unlike any he'd ever felt before. Disoriented, he tried to remember what had happened to cause the pain, his memory drawing blanks. Finely tuned, but slightly rusty soldier instincts kicked in, and he remained silent and still, trying not to draw attention to himself. He couldn't see, but he could hear and he piqued his ears, listening intently for any sounds that might give him an inkling of what was happening. 

He remembered a deafening crash and men dressed in black, their faces covered, surrounding him in his own home. They came through the front, breaking the door down and jumping through his living room window, knocking over the table where he'd placed a few of Iria's heirlooms that had been their mother's. They came in from the back and in through the kitchen and even down the stairs, having broken in through the upstairs windows as well. He and Sally had drawn their weapons, but he'd already known it was no use. 

They were told to lower them, or be shot. He remembered placing his gun on the floor and kicking it over to the nearest soldier. A nod to Sally and she did the same. One came to apprehend him, grabbing his arms from behind. He'd reacted almost without thinking, bringing his heel down onto the vulnerable spot in the top of the man's foot, feeling the bones break and when the man bent over in pain, Quatre swung his elbow into the side of his face, hearing the sickening crunch of his jaw snapping. In three places if he wagered a guess. 

Two more jumped on him and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sally run forward, intent on stopping them, but before he could tell her not to, the butt of an automatic rifle smashed into her forehead. She dropped instantly, unconscious. He struggled and kicked, punched and scratched trying to get to her. He sunk his teeth into the nearest piece of flesh he could find which happened to be the neck of one of the soldiers, pulling his head away quickly when blood spurted everywhere. The man clutched his neck and screamed. Quatre pushed past him and rushed to Sally, but received a sharp crack in the back of his head. He went down like a ton of bricks, the room spinning, the light fading. He struggled up onto his knees, trying to crawl over to where she lay ominously still and felt another strike to his head, and he dropped onto the floor, senseless. He vaguely remembered the final hit before everything went dark.

He was terribly worried about Sally and hoped the guys got back to her in time. He was pretty sure she was just knocked cold, but she needed medical attention. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out. He just hoped she was okay.

He could hear voices, male, maybe one female, and the hum of a motor vehicle. He registered the feeling of vibration beneath him and the occasional lurch and bump. He was in a truck, he could discern that much. There was a binding over his face, a blindfold, and when he tried to move his arms, he discovered they were pinned behind his back. He could feel the unforgiving weight of metal chains. Another quick assessment and he realized his legs were also bound together. It was a relatively large truck if the voices echoing off the inner walls were any indication. He was slightly startled by a sudden laugh, but managed not to react outwardly.

A male voice, gruff, ruddy, chuckled at Quatre's expense. "Who knew the great Quatre Winner was a Newtype. That's some shite for the record books, I tell ya."

Another voice spoke up. "Wasn't too hard to figure out considering he was battin' for their team this whole time." A rough calloused hand gripped his chin, pulling it up. Quatre went with it, remaining limp in his position. "Fuckin' Newtypes, man." He was let go and shoved and he allowed his body to go where gravity took him. 

"Yeah, well. They won't be much of a threat anymore. Glad someone finally did something about it."

Quatre's jaw clenched, imperceptibly, suddenly angered. Who the hell did these assholes think they were? He remained still, listening to their conversation, biting his tongue whenever they made a snide comment about him, or Newtypes in general. He figured they must have been on an unpaved road, considering how much he was getting jostled. What time was it? How long had they been traveling? Where were they going? He thought about Trowa. Wondered if he and the guys had been successful, though something told him they weren't. He also had the sinking suspicion that they might have been led away in order to get to him and that made his stomach curl up with fear. 

He prayed that they were okay. He wouldn't know what he'd do if something happened to them. He hoped Trowa was holding up okay, glad that Heero, Duo, and Wufei were there with him and he wasn't alone. 

He felt the truck roll to a stop and his hair was grabbed roughly, pulling his head up. His neck protested at the unnatural angle and he clenched his teeth against the pain. There was hot breath in his face and his stomach lurched at the sour smell of stale coffee. 

"Wakey, wakey, Newtype trash. Your new home awaits."

The chains around his legs were unlocked and pulled away so he would be able to walk. His arms were grabbed from behind and he was yanked up onto his feet and manhandled forward. He tripped several times, unable to see where he was going and was roughly pulled up by his arms every time he stumbled, one of his captors snarling, "On your feet, dog."

He was led down a gravel path for what he surmised as several dozen meters. He could feel the uneven ground and the occasional loose pebble beneath his shoes. He heard a loud buzzing and the screech of metal on metal and guessed it was a sliding gate. He stumbled again as he was pushed through, the person holding his arm whispering in his ear, too close for comfort, "And these fences are not only barbed, but electrified so you try anything, Newtype scum, you'll be shred to ribbons and then fried like a Christmas goose."

Quatre kept his mouth shut, not rising to any of the taunting and allowed himself to be maneuvered around. He heard another buzz and the sound of an automatic door opening and then he was pushed inside. His nose prickled at the smell of mildew and antiseptic, which scarcely covered the distinct odor of blood and Quatre's heart gave a start in his chest. People were being hurt, possibly worse. This was not good. 

He was led down what he thought were several different hallways, occasionally hearing another buzz and another sliding of automatic doors. Then, he was told to stop and stay where he was. He obeyed and waited to see what would happen next.

After a few moments he heard a single set of footsteps, walking towards him, the frequent scuff of a shoe echoing off the walls of the room. Whoever it was stopped directly in front of him, then paused and Quatre's heart pounded against his rib cage, his muscles tensing.

The blindfold was grabbed and lifted off his head and he blinked and squinted under the bright florescent lights. His vision was a little fuzzy as he tried to focus on the man in front of him. The guy was huge, taller than Trowa even, and twice as wide. His face was covered in stubble, battle scars criss-crossed the skin of his cheek and chin, and he'd obviously suffered a broken nose at one point. His lip curled up, just slightly in a mockery of a grin, but his eyes made Quatre want to curl in on himself. They were brown and they were hard, fierce. Those eyes told Quatre everything he needed to know: that this man would take great pleasure in snapping Quatre's neck between his hands if he dare try anything.

There was a flash of teeth as the man grinned at him. A grin that wasn't friendly, or welcoming in the slightest. "Good morning, Mr. Winner." The man's voice was deep and as hard as his eyes. "Though now would probably be a good time to tell you that that is no longer your name. From now on, you are prisoner number 4351A. "A" as in, high risk, which means maximum security for you, son." He reached over to a small table in the center of the room which was barren, but for that and a single chair. On top of the table sat a file. It didn't take a genius to know that that file was probably full of information about him. 

The man picked it up and casually rifled through it. "So...you were a Gundam pilot, is that correct?" He said it nonchalantly, like one would bring up the weather. _So, how about that rain? Been a right pisser lately, hasn't it?_ He glanced up, eyeing Quatre critically. 

Quatre refused to answer, which apparently was the wrong thing to do. The man grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off his feet. Quatre choked as his airway was squeezed and he futilely kicked his feet, trying to wrench the vice-like hand away from his neck, with no success. The man lowered him until he was level with his eyes and Quatre's toes desperately tried to find purchase on the slippery tile floor. "Let me make myself perfectly clear, Prisoner number 4351A. You may have been accustomed to having your way in the past, considering who you used to be, but let me give you a little friendly advice. You are not that person anymore. You are the property of the government and as such property, you will answer any and all of my questions with the utmost honesty and respect. Do you understand?"

Quatre's brain was whirling a mile a second, trying frantically to come up with a solution. He could knee the man's groin and when he went down, give him a fist upside the chin, followed by an elbow to his jaw, and make a run for it. But he knew he probably wouldn't get very far before he was shot in the back. It was already plainly obvious that negotiation was not an option either. The only thing he could do now was make nice and play along. Bide his time until he had a chance to strike back. 

His pride stung like a bitch as he rasped out a desperate, "Yes...yes, I understand." He coughed and sucked in big lungfuls of air as he was dropped unceremoniously onto the floor, his knees aching from the impact. Panting, he sat silently, waiting for whatever came next. The man crouched down, bending his head in an attempt to catch Quatre's eyes, but Quatre evaded him, looking everywhere but at him. He noticed a small surveillance camera mounted in the corner and the room had windows on three sides with what he assumed was bullet proof glass. 

The man grabbed the hair at the back of his head and pulled until Quatre yelped in pain, tears involuntarily gathering in the corners of his eyes. The hulking figure leaned forward, hissing in his face. "Now, listen to me very carefully. My name is General Blaine. I run this here outfit and I will tolerate no disrespect. This is your home now and you will be fed and clothed. You will receive proper medical treatment if and when it is necessary, and you will work. Hard. You will work alongside the other prisoners as long as there is light outside, and then you will be returned to your cell for the night to sleep. You will be able to shower once a day with the other prisoners and you are allowed to have one personal possession on you. A book, a picture, I don't care what. You will obey every single order you are given. You will not slack off, or mouth off, and if you so much as look at any of the guards in a way that makes them nervous, you will get a beat down that your mother will feel in her grave. You have three strikes. You blow your third one, you will face a tribunal who will decide whether you are worth the trouble, or not. If you are not deemed worth the trouble, you will be taken out to the field and executed in front of the other prisoners. Do I make myself clear?"

Quatre raised his eyes and glared at him and the man yanked on his hair, snarling. "I can see you have a real problem with authority, but you _will_ learn to behave yourself. We will do whatever it takes, by any and all means necessary to be sure you learn to do what you're told and do not step out of line." Blaine leaned forward, rubbing his stubbled jaw against Quatre's soft cheek. "I find it hilarious that you were actually a soldier. You don't look like you could handle much manual labor, but considering you were a Gundam pilot, I'm sure it won't be too much of a task for you. There is no place for obsolete dogs here, boy. If you can't be useful with your hands, you will be useful on your back, and if you can't be useful on your back, you will die. Understood?"

Quatre's breath hitched at the implication, his mind catching fleeting images of being strapped to a cot and sexually assaulted. God, were they taking those who were unfit for manual labor and using them as sex slaves instead? He shivered, chilled to the bone, and Blaine grinned. "Oh, yes. You know exactly what I'm talking about. You're a sharp one. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that a pretty thing like you would make a very popular whore around here." Quatre looked at the floor, struggling not to vomit. He managed to swallow down a mouthful of bile. Blaine leaned back, suddenly cheerful. "So! Do as you're told, cooperate, and maybe that won't happen to you. Oh, one last thing."

Blaine reached into the pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out a white, circular object and Quatre's eyes focused on it, widening in dawning realization. He was going to be collared. He pulled away abruptly, scrambling across the floor, slipping and sliding on the tile as he struggled to escape, which was made exceptionally difficult with his hands cuffed behind him. Blaine grabbed his leg and pulled him back, spinning him around and holding him against a broad chest. "Now, now. This won't hurt." Quatre groaned in helpless rage as the electronic collar slipped around his neck and was locked into place with a beep of finality that echoed off the walls, damning him to this God-forsaken place. "This will not only keep you from leaving the premises by giving you a nasty shock, but it also suppresses your abilities so you are unable to try any of those Newtype tricks on us. I read that you are a telepath. No more mind-reading for you."

Quatre dropped forward onto all fours, overcome with shock. His gifts, his empathy and telepathy that had been a part of him for as long as he could remember, was suddenly gone, leaving a black, empty void in his mind. It was as if a huge piece of him had just been snatched away and fed to wild animals. He realized that was what these people were. Animals. Savages. Did they not understand what that did to a Newtype? He shook and shivered as the void began to swallow him alive and he threw his head back and screamed. Screamed and screamed and screamed, consumed by the pain of losing an intricate part of himself. It was gone. He could sense nothing, not even a flash of emotion. He kept on screaming, the agony just too damn much. He screamed so loud, his cries were heard throughout the entire complex. He screamed until his mouth filled with blood from the broken capillaries in his throat, and then he collapsed into a trembling heap on the floor, weeping in grief. 

Blaine stood over him, looking down at him, and smiled brightly. "Welcome to Bridgepoint West, son. I hope you'll enjoy your stay because I promise you, it'll be the last place you ever see."

 

Quatre didn't know how much time had passed, but it seemed like only moments and an eternity at the same time. He lay on the floor, exhausted, hiccuping every now and again. The loss of his Newtype abilities left him feeling lost, disoriented, as they had been a prominent and very natural part of him. It left him limp and drained. Lifeless. 

He vaguely registered the sound of guards entering the room. They reached down and grabbed him, pulling him up onto legs that didn't want to work. His knees buckled and the guards cursed about having to carry him. He hung between them, feet sliding uselessly along the floor as he was dragged down more corridors and into a wash room. He stood, helpless and wretched as he was stripped naked and washed down by cruel hands. 

"Don't want to contaminate the place with your cooties," muttered one the guards as he made a show of being utterly disgusted about having to touch him.

The other guard snickered. "He's a lovely little thing, though, isn't he? He probably likes this. Do you like being touched like this, Newtype dog?" 

Quatre closed his eyes, his mind trying go somewhere else, anywhere else, as long as it was far away from here. Bruises were beginning to form on his porcelain skin from all the rough gripping and manhandling he'd endured. He kept his head down, consumed by humiliation as he was touched in his most intimate places and insulted. 

Once he was clean, he was taken into a makeshift locker room where the guards dressed him in a drab gray jumpsuit. Wool, to keep out the chill of the Northern English countryside. His hands were released long enough for them to get the shirt on him and then he was cuffed again. He was given a simple pair of slip-on shoes and his wet hair was combed, with no regard to any pain as it ripped and tore through the tangles and knots. 

There was a mirror in front of him, but Quatre could not find the will, or the strength to look at himself. _I am a prisoner...I am a prisoner...I am a prisoner_...The mantra kept repeating itself in his head on an endless loop. He was almost unable to believe he'd been in his home with Trowa less than a day ago. It seemed like another lifetime, an eternity ago. 

The guards finished grooming him and then he was dragged down more corridors until they reached what looked like a cell block. They stopped in front of an empty one. A card was swiped through a reader, and the door slid open. His wrists were freed and he was shoved inside, the door slamming shut behind him. He stumbled over to the tiny cot in the corner. The cell was maybe seven, or eight square feet in size with a small sink and a toilet. There were no windows, no chance of seeing daylight while he was in here. 

He dropped down onto the cot, having nothing left in him for anything else. He felt the springs poke up through the thin mattress and into his side, but he couldn't find the energy to care. He closed his eyes, feeling his consciousness slip and slide together in ways that increasingly made less sense. He held on as long as he could, thinking of better days, of better times, of his life, his home, his friends, his family. Soon, exhaustion took over. He drifted off into an uneasy sleep and dreamed of Trowa.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Une sat sideways on the tiny cot inside her cell and leaned against the wall, watching water drip down the painted cement block from a leak somewhere in the roof. Her nerves were on edge as she cursed her stupidity. She had no idea how, or when someone had been able to bug Preventers Headquarters. Zander's people were responsible for this, but most likely Preventers had a traitor in their midst that carried out the order. Une always prided herself on her ability to hire agents that she could trust. They were well-vetted, thoroughly checked, and given the riot act by Une herself. Her people were well-chosen, but it seemed one slipped through the cracks.

Her money was on Michaels. He'd seemed promising when she hired him as her assistant six months ago. She'd gone well into his background before taking him on. He was a war veteran, had fantastic credentials, and was reliable to a fault. Still, as much as she hated to admit it, he was the most likely choice because she knew her other agents well enough to know they wouldn't have done this. Not even under duress. 

At least, Une thought so, but who knew? Everyone was a potential enemy now. Her trust in people was at an all-time low and her faith in humanity sadly lacking.

There was no indication that anything had been tampered with when she'd gone to Preventers that morning. Security had not come to her with any red flags that something was wrong. Either they were in on it, or she'd hired useless baffoons to secure her facility. She had a sinking feeling it was the former and her jaw clenched in anger at the betrayal. She'd brought these people in on good faith and it had bitten her in the ass. It was like war time all over again. And like any commander during war time, she was already planning on the disposal of her enemies. That was, as soon as she got out of here, and she _would_ get out. Come Hell, or high water, they would pay dearly.

She'd demanded to speak with Zander and she was granted that, though it was via an encrypted phone call. He informed her that Quatre had been captured and was in a high security location. She had no clue where he was, wasn't even sure where _she_ was. She certainly didn't trust Zander as far as she could spit. She knew she was in a prison of some kind, but she didn't know which one. Her head had been covered with a cloth sack when she was brought in, though she could hear the faint sounds of the ocean as she'd walked from the vehicle to the building. She was somewhere near the coast and there were three, or four prisons that she could think of that were close to the water. She tentatively guessed she was at Maryport, Gosforth, or Blyth, considering the amount of time they were on the road.

She wasn't going to get a trial. She'd been informed of that, too. None of the political prisoners would, much less any of the Newtypes that were taken in. Due process apparently didn't exist anymore; the court systems rendered null and void, or so far corrupted that they were either too afraid to do the right thing, or didn't want to.

Zander had put himself in quite a precarious position. The would-be dictator knew enough that while he had the military and most of the police following his orders, he also had a lot of powerful enemies and he'd gone into hiding fairly early. She had no doubt that he had probably taken refuge down in a bunker, or secured compound of some kind, and was most definitely surrounded by guards. His messages to his followers were encrypted and delivered electronically to keep his whereabouts unknown. It was too risky for him to be in public. Parliament was furious that they'd been removed from power. There were multiple hits out for Zander's head, many of them coming from Parliament members themselves, of that Une had no doubt.

Some of them had been taken into custody along with Une, the rest either went into hiding themselves, claimed to be neutral, or pretended to be down for the cause. The prison grapevine was abuzz with rumors that an uprising was already in the works. That plans were being drawn, strategies formulating, for the take down of this regime. 

Other nations were also trying to intervene, through diplomacy at the moment since Zander had sealed the borders. No one could get in, or out. The ESUN was doing all they could to reach a peaceful resolution, but Une knew that it likely wouldn't work. If they decided on a military strike, which would be the next step, it could take months to go through all of the various committees before it was approved. 

She'd gotten word just before she was apprehended that Sanq Kingdom was also trying to put a stop to this. Vice Minister Relena Peacecraft was apparently in talks with Zander himself, trying to convince him to surrender. She didn't have much hope there either. Relena could be very persuasive, but Une had a feeling not even she could talk him down from this.

She sighed, bringing her knee up to her chest, and stared down at the orange linen fabric of her prison uniform. She'd been here three days. A political prisoner. She huffed out a humorless laugh. What a fucking joke. Of course, she'd had a very influential position, once as Treize's top agent and then the head of the most reputable law enforcement agency in the world. She was a threat to Zander as she spoke out against him. She'd known the likelihood of being taken into custody when she'd gone to Parliament, but her principles would not let her turn tail, or keep her mouth shut. 

She didn't put up a fight when she was apprehended, but she loudly proclaimed the injustice, the inhumanity of these acts, not only against her, but against Newtypes. She verbally railed at the soldiers and at the spectators and media outside. She hoped it had been aired on all the major networks, not only in Britain, but all over the world. Though, Zander might have already initiated a media blackout within the country. She hoped someone had at least been able to leak some of the coverage of what was going on to the outside. 

There were people within that had the ability to take this down from the inside, but it would be at great risk to the prisoners. Une was no stranger to risk and though she didn't wish for death, she was willing to die if it meant this would end. She hoped for a diplomatic solution, but was secretly itching for a fight. A real, nasty bloody one like the kind she'd fought during the wars and her fingers curled into the fabric of her jumpsuit. Her fingers...they'd forcefully clipped her nails and removed her polish when she'd come in after printing her. As if her prints weren't already on record. 

She wanted to sink her fingers into Zander's pasty skin and tear the flesh from his bones. She ground her teeth together as she was swept away by the fantasy. Oh, yes. That bastard would get his. She would see to that, though she may have to get in line behind Trowa.

She'd heard though the grapevine via the other prisoners that a number of military and police personnel had deserted their posts in protest of this takeover. Word was, they were gathering somewhere to plan a counterattack. These things were whispered softly when they congregated in the mess hall and the showers, outside of earshot of the guards. Une was positive at least one of the guards was delivering the information to the prisoners, but she wasn't sure which one. Only a few prisoners knew, highly trusted opponents of Zander who knew to keep their mouths shut and not blab the information to the prison's general population.

Une wanted to know who it was. She needed to get messages out to the pilots as well as Zechs and Noin. The couple was currently in Geneva and were no doubt also planning their...intervention. If there was a way to sneak them into the country and rendezvous with the pilots and Sally, she was positive they could take this shit down faster than any of the pencil necks at ESUN could do. 

It was safe to say Quatre was likely at one of the camps, but she was also worried about the other boys, especially Trowa. She knew how capable he was, but she also knew he was prone to being emotionally compromised, even more than Quatre, or Wufei. She also knew that Heero had Newtype abilities, though not as strong as Quatre's and that information was located in the same place that Quatre's information had been. If they found out Heero was also in the country, he could be at risk for capture, or death. 

But, she knew the boys and she knew they knew that and had probably gotten out of dodge by now and into a safe location. At least safer than Trowa and Quatre's home. They knew how to stay off the radar and with any luck, they were getting in touch with the deserters and the rebels. Hopefully, they were able to get in contact with Zechs and Noin, or at the very least, Relena. 

She heard the click of boots coming down the corridor and she stared at the wall, schooling her features into a neutral expression. The footsteps came closer and then stopped in front of her cell. A female guard stood just outside and Une recognized her immediately. She was a former OZ fighter that had defected to the rebel side. She didn't turn, didn't look at Une, just stared straight ahead. Her hand crept through the bars and dropped a tiny white ball, no bigger than a pea, pushing it under the gap between the bars and the concrete floor with her boot. 

"I can trust you to keep your mouth shut," she whispered. "The others said as much."

"Of course."

"Good. Your friends are on the move."

"How do you know this?"

"Let's just say my source is anonymous as of now. There's an underground movement and it's growing. This may lead to a civil war."

"So be it."

The guard smirked. "I knew you'd say that."

"Do you know where Quatre Winner is?"

"Bridgepoint West, outside of Alnwick."

"You're taking a great risk."

"I know."

"Why?"

"Because I believe in doing the right thing."

Une hesitated, then, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet."

She left and Une got up from her cot and swiped the white ball off the floor. It was crumpled paper. She opened it, heart pounding as she read the message written inside. 

_Lay low and bide your time. You will know when it's time to strike. We are coming. Stay safe. ~ Noin_

She crumpled the paper back into a ball and swallowed it, letting out a breath of relief. There was hope. There was always hope. 


	13. Chapter 13

Duo was, of all things, in dire need of a hot shower. He groaned as the stolen truck hit another bump in the road, wishing he'd brought a cushion to protect his ass from the cold, dirty metal. It was a three-seater and the cab was taken up by Wufei, Sally, and Trowa. That left he and Heero to ride out the unpaved country roads in the bed. He felt disgusting as he pulled his braid over his shoulder and picked tiny twigs out from between the weaved locks of hair. They'd taken a detour on foot through the woods, not even bothering with any of their vehicles. They walked for three days until they were sure they were cleared from the big city and under the cover of night, snatched an old pickup from a local farmer. 

Duo felt bad about taking the old guy's truck so he left a wad of unmarked credits inside the handle of his back door. He wanted to leave a note, but it was too risky. They didn't want anyone sniffing out their trail. 

He was really worried about Trowa's state of mind. He hadn't said much since Quatre was taken four days ago and Duo and Heero had taken to forcing him to eat and sleep. He stared straight ahead, seemed lost in thought and spoke only when spoken to, though he'd taken to saying, "I can't feel him. I can't feel him," every so often. It was as if he'd forgotten how to live. Duo could only hope it was just temporary shock because they needed him. Quat needed him.

Heero had gotten an encrypted message through to Zechs and Relena to let them know what had happened and he'd picked up chatter through various obscure internet sites, ones that were well-protected with high security firewalls. The information on Quatre's whereabouts was exceedingly difficult to find, but he'd been able to pinpoint his location outside of Alnwick where an old prison had sat unused for decades. That was just one site out of about fourteen scattered around the country that was being used to hold the imprisoned Newtypes. 

If there was one thing to be said about imprisoning someone who was well-known, it was that people were going to talk about it, including people who weren't _supposed_ to talk about it. Certain aspects of human nature were reliable to a fault and Heero knew someone would inevitably brag, juicy gossip that was just too good not to share and what better than the news that Quatre Winner was not only a Newtype, but was among those who were apprehended? Someone out there would be proud about that fact, feel some sort of perverse vindication, and wouldn't be able keep his mouth shut about it. All he needed was one person to spill the beans before it spread like wildfire throughout the internet. Even with the attempts to smother social media usage, there were those who knew how to work their way around them and one of them was Heero. 

Just as he'd predicted, someone had talked and he traced the rumors to their source. The name Bridgepoint West popped out like a beacon and the street level footage he'd been able to find on the vehicles that came to Trowa and Quatre's house were tracked going northbound to the location.

The counter movement had been initialized and strongholds of rebel forces were going up all over the country, recruiting not only AWOL military and police, but also civilians who wished to take up arms to fight the new regime. One such branch was located about forty miles outside of Alnwick. Heero had gotten in touch with the head of that branch. He had to jump through about a thousand hoops to prove who he was before he was given the coordinates to their exact location. They were on their way there but they had to be extremely careful, avoiding any main roads and arteries through towns and cities. They had enough weaponry on them to mobilize a small army which wouldn't bode well if they were caught. 

They stopped into the towns long enough to stock up on necessities and then they were on the move again, through back roads that didn't even have names, much less were located on any maps. Heero had to install his own self-made blocker that he'd created during the war so he could still use his computer to garner information without being tracked.

Duo was also worried about Heero. He didn't know how much Zander's people knew, whether they'd known that he and Heero were in the country when they'd sent them on that wild goose chase. He had to assume they did and if that was the case, they probably knew about Heero's Newtype abilities. He still had no idea how Newtypes were able to do what they did. He was fascinated by the things Heero and Quatre could do, fascinated by their connection. He'd seen the magic happen himself during the war when Heero and Quatre were often in close contact with each other. Quatre's abilities went far beyond just impressions of people's feelings. The fact that he could read minds had creeped Duo out for the longest time. He'd been uneasy when he'd first found out, but if there was anyone in the world that he could trust, it was Quatre and Quatre would never violate someone's privacy unless he absolutely had to.

Trowa's ability seemed intricately connected to Quatre himself and did not go beyond the two of them. There were no records on file as far as Duo knew about Trowa's uncanny ability to know where Quatre was and whether, or not he was in distress. In that sense, he was only a Newtype as far as Quatre was concerned and that was it. The fact that he kept mumbling that he couldn't feel Quatre was unnerving. Even more so when Heero had said he couldn't feel him either. Duo didn't know if it was just the distance between them that was causing it, the power just too diluted to travel that far. He hoped that was the case because the alternative was something Duo didn't want to think about.

Heero's gift was far less intense than Quatre's, more muted. Limited to vague notions of feelings, but he could extend it pretty far when he set his mind to it. He'd known about Father Maxwell, Sister Helen, and Solo long before Duo ever told him about them. He hadn't known their names, but he had recollections, almost like pictures of them in his mind and he could feel the emotional connection Duo had with them. 

Doctor J was intimately connected with Heero's abilities because he knew every single thing about him and that information was recorded in the Doctor's abstruse notes along with every complex detail of Heero's physical, mental, and emotional profile. That knowledge, that also extended to all of the pilots and their affiliations with the Mad Five, covered everything, even their most mundane habits which included all of their biological functions.

Duo could still remember blushing to the tips of his toes when he'd gone through the intensely awkward sexual training. Basically, since they were male and teenagers, _especially_ because they were male and teenagers, they were prone to preoccupation of the sexual nature. They couldn't afford to be distracted by something as pesky as sexual arousal. It could cost them a mission, cost them their lives. He'd been connected with electrodes to monitor his heart and brain waves and was shown images of naked males and females, shown video clips of pornography, and was given a moderate electric shock whenever he responded with anything remotely resembling arousal. It was a wonder any of them had any sex life at all after that. 

If that wasn't bad enough, they were also forced to hold their full bladders and bowel movements for days at a time. Sometimes, you just weren't going to have the chance to stop and take a shit when you were on a mission, no matter how badly you had to go. They were starved and deprived of water, even sleep. They were kept in tiny rooms with no outside stimuli to enhance emotional and mental endurance. Every possible threat to the mission was addressed. Every 'i' was dotted, every 't' crossed. 

The truck hit another hole in the road and Duo's ass bounced painfully against the rippled bed. "Ow," he moaned. He glanced over at his lover whose head lolled with the movement of the truck, his eyes closed. How he could sleep on this roller coaster ride was beyond Duo. He shook his head affectionately and watched the endless trees and pastures pass by, getting difficult to see now that it was getting dark. They'd be stopping soon to sleep. Hopefully, they'd be able to find a barn to camp out for the night. Under the stars wasn't bad, but it got a little chilly at night and it wasn't fun waking up covered in dew. Tomorrow, they would reach the rebel compound.

He glanced up at the stars, pinpointed the lights of the different colonies. As different as each of them were. Different, but the same. He remembered feeling some jealousy when he'd discovered the connection Heero had with Quatre and was a little angered when he found out they had slept together after the Zero incident. Of course, that had been his own petty feelings. He and Heero weren't together at the time and Heero had explained to him that the intimacy had been a comfort to them during a very difficult time. Duo realized it was silly to be jealous, realized it was something that they'd needed. Quatre had been distraught over Trowa and Heero was missing Duo. They'd also needed to explore their strange Newtype kinship. It was new to them both, finding someone who was like them. It took him a while to get over those bitter feelings, wishing he could have with Heero what Quatre had. He finally had to accept that it was just the way it was. He loved them both dearly and he couldn't harbor any ill will towards either of them. 

He wondered how Quatre was doing. Unlike Wufei and even Trowa in the beginning, he'd always believed Quatre was as capable as the rest of them. He was probably the strongest when it came right down to it. Not physically. In that sense, he did score last in physical strength which was understandable considering his petite stature, but physical and mental endurance, he'd easily surpassed even Heero. He had no doubt Quatre would get through this virtually unscathed. He had a good head on his shoulders and he was more prone than the other pilots to thinking out his actions before he implemented them. He was a strategist by nature. He didn't do anything without carefully calculating all possible outcomes. In that, he was similar to Zero which was why he'd been able to merge with the system with relative ease.

He was the only one, with the exception of Heero, to conquer that system. Something that still terrified Duo to this day. He didn't know how they did it. Trowa had nearly lost his mind and everyone else who'd ever used it _did_ lose theirs. 

The truck slowed to a stop and Duo turned towards the little window in the back of the cab as Wufei slid it open. He pointed to an old barn about a quarter mile off the road.

"We're gonna camp there. Sound good?"

"Yeah, that's fine."

Wufei nodded and slid the window closed, pulling the truck off the road and through the field, parking it behind the barn and out of sight. Duo breathed a sigh of relief as the jarring finally stopped and his ass sung his praises as he lifted it from the hard surface of the truck bed. He bent down and shook his lover's shoulder gently.

"Hey, Hee-chan."

"Mmf."

"Come on, baby. We're here."

Heero's eyes cracked open, gleaming dark blue in the moonlight. "Where's 'here'?"

"Dunno. We have to check our coordinates. It's out in the boonies, that's all I know." He offered Heero his hand and pulled him up. They grabbed their stuff and jumped down, stretching muscles that had been dormant for some hours.

"Ahhh...God that feels good, eh Tro?" 

Trowa was silent, gazing up at the moon with a solemn expression. Duo didn't give up trying to engage him. The sooner he snapped out of it, the better for all of them. He wrapped an arm around his friend. "Come on, buddy. You gotta come back to us. Let's go inside and get you settled." Duo looped his arm through Trowa's and guided him into the barn, busying himself by setting up the pallets for them to sleep. The barn had an old musty smell, faint remnants of animals and dung still lingered in the air. Duo's nose prickled. Wonderful. As if he didn't already stink, now he could add rancid barnyard stench to the list. He prayed the compound had showering facilities.

He glanced up at Trowa and patted the pallet he'd set up for him. "Come on. Sit down." Trowa obeyed and Duo dug through his pack until he located a can of peaches. He popped the lid open and handed it to Trowa, licking fruit juice from his thumb. "Here. You need to eat. I don't have any spoons, so you'll just have to slurp it."

Trowa quietly sipped the juice from the can as Heero walked over. "I'm low on battery power and since the sun's down, I can't charge my computer until morning, but I checked our coordinates. We're outside of Wakefield. We should reach the compound sometime in the late morning."

Duo nodded, "Sounds good. I got dibs on the first shower."

Heero smirked and plopped down on his pallet, Wufei and Sally settling down on the other side of him. Sally sat up and glanced over at Duo.

"How is he?"

""He" is just fine, thank you," said Trowa, a little irritably.

"There he is. He's still with us." Duo ruffled his hair and Trowa swatted his hand away.

Sally was blushing. "Sorry, Trowa. I didn't mean to act like you weren't here, or -"

"It's okay, Sally. I'm sorry I snapped at you. I'm just...out of sorts."

"Understandable, sweetie."

"Go to sleep," Wufei grumbled.

Duo turned a wry grin on Trowa. "Well, we heard the man. Orders are orders." He glanced at Heero who was already snoring softly. Wufei huffed and nudged him and he rolled onto his side with a snort, then settled back down, sans snoring.

Trowa turned misty eyes on Duo. "I can't feel him," he said again.

Duo rested a hand on his knee, heart hurting for his friend. "I know, man."

"Why can't I feel him? I always feel him. Always, but - I can't feel anything, Duo."

"I know, buddy, but you can't give up. We don't know what's happening, but I'm sure whatever it is, Quat is fine."

"How can you be sure?"

Duo shrugged. "Because it's Quat."

That earned him a small smile. Encouraged, he continued. "You know as well as I do how tough that little blond shit is. Probably tougher than all of us. He's also stubborn as a mule. He's not going to let anything happen that would take him away from you. This is a setback for him, nothing more."

Trowa chuckled. "Remember our wedding?"

Duo threw his head back, laughing. "How could I forget?"

Quatre was dead set on getting married on the fifteenth of October. Not even an "emergency" was going to deter him from his wedding day. He'd been dragged to the L4 capitol for official business. So he brought Trowa with him, as well as the entire wedding party, called a magistrate, and they got married right then and there in the middle of the conference, signing off on legislation as he took his vows. 

Quatre was the one who'd walked seventy miles through the desert in one hundred plus degree heat with no water and then went straight into battle. He was the one who was training with Wufei in the Peacemillion hangar and making plans to destroy the Gundams less than a week after he'd been run clean through with a sword and suffered a punctured kidney and internal bleeding. Trowa had to force him to go back to the infirmary and even then, he'd gone practically kicking and screaming.

That was the kind of tenacity they were dealing with. That was Quatre. He wasn't going to let this bring him down. He'd fight his way back to them because Quatre Winner didn't take anything lying down. He knew what he wanted, knew what needed to be done and he wouldn't settle for anything less.


	14. Chapter 14

Quatre finally emerged from "isolation" after five days to begin working labor on the prison. He was bruised and sore, covered in cuts and lacerations from fighting the guards whenever they went into his cell to retrieve him. He'd been like a rabid animal, punching, kicking, scratching, and biting as they held him down against the cot and he snarled in impotent rage as they tattooed his prisoner number and bar code into the tender skin just beneath the inside of his elbow. 

There had been a small victory when he snapped the bones in one guard's arm and gave another one a concussion before he was given an electric shock through his collar that left him dazed and drooling on the scratchy pillow while they seared his "identification" into his skin.

Blaine had come in while he struggled against the restraining hands, hissing against Quatre's ear. "While I admire your tenacity, I hope you're not going to be more trouble than you're worth. You have the potential to be quite an asset in this facility considering your background."

"Fuck your assets," Quatre spat through clenched teeth.

He could feel the smirk against his ear as Blaine said, "I like your fire, boy. You surprise me. You don't look capable of swatting a fly, but you've already incapacitated two of my men."

Quatre choked out a bitter laugh. "There's plenty more where that came from."

Blaine smiled and crouched down until they were face to face. "I like you, son. You remind me of a younger me."

"I am _nothing_ like you, you deranged bastard."

Blaine just grinned and ruffled his hair. "We'll see." He signaled to the tattooer and left the cell. 

Quatre glared up the guards, refusing to let any pain show on his face as the needle dug into his skin. The guards leered at him as they held his arms and legs down, pressing on his chest so hard, the metal springs of the cot's mattress dug into his back and made it difficult to breathe.

A guard with dark blond hair, slicked back over his head and a pocked face sneered down at him. "You're feisty for a little pretty boy." Quatre's lip curled, but he said nothing. "You broke my friend's arm. Don't think you're going to get away with that."

Quatre cocked his head at him. "In what way am I getting away with anything?"

"I should break your arm."

"Go the fuck ahead. I dare you."

The hands holding his arm clenched, the hard fingers digging into the skin and the guard gritted his teeth, emitting a low growl as it seemed he was going to do just that.

"Jerry, don't," said the guy with the tattoo gun. 

"Shut the fuck up. Nobody asked you. Just do your job."

The tattooer looked away and closed his mouth. It was then that Quatre realized he was also a prisoner. His eyes caught sight of the collar around his neck, though he wasn't wearing the standard prisoners' uniform. Instead, he wore pants similar to the guards and a drab gray t-shirt. But the collar was there. Quatre guessed he was doing them favors in order to receive special perks. Helping them out for privileges the other prisoners didn't have. He wondered what it took to be placed above the others and shuddered at the possibilities. 

Of course, he may have been a minimum security prisoner where Quatre was maximum. High risk due to his military and political backgrounds. Who knew. Maybe this guy owned a tattoo parlor in his previous life, or planned weddings, or something. Someone who wasn't much of a threat to begin with. Quatre glanced up at him, caught his gaze, and the prisoner's eyes seemed to communicate a warning in them. He cursed his lack of telepathy, wishing he could read him, but the look in his eyes was pretty clear. 

_Cooperate. Keep your nose clean and it might be worth your while._

The patch of skin with the new ink on it was cleaned and covered and he was left alone in his cell again to ponder his next move.

He didn't see the tattooer again after that, unfortunately. Quatre was hoping to catch him around and maybe talk to him, though if what he sensed was true, the guy was a turncoat. A sellout. He probably would relay anything Quatre told him to the guards. He had to be careful who he trusted around here. The prisoners were privvy to special treatment when they did things for the guards, possibly even Blaine. He'd have to keep his mouth shut and his eyes down for now. 

That was probably what Blaine meant when he said he'd be an asset to this place. If he scratched their backs, they might scratch his. He wondered what it took to gain those privileges. It made him sick to even think about it, disgust curdling in his belly. But it might just be the key that could get him out of there. If he wasn't watched as closely. If he was allowed to go places that he wasn't allowed to now. Have access to things he didn't currently have access to. To be trusted, even just a little, as much as a prisoner could be trusted in this place.

It wouldn't be easy and he'd probably have to bend over backwards for it. They weren't just going to up and trust him when he tossed them a few bones. He was high risk for a reason and these people were smart. He may end up subjecting himself to things that made his skin crawl and still might never gain that trust because of who he was. What he could do.

A guard that he was uncomfortably familiar with had come for him that morning, slapping his nightstick against the bars and jolting Quatre out of a light doze. He'd been in that pleasant twilight state between wakefulness and deep sleep, revisiting his wedding day. What a splendid day that had been. He could feel the rough skin of Trowa's palms as they held his own hands. Could see his husband's beautiful face, the shine of deep green from the fading light of the sunset.

Quatre jumped and sat up at the loud _clank_ of the nightstick and glared at the guard. He was referred to around the prison as 'Junior', though Quatre had no idea how that nickname could have come about. The guy was big and pushing forty. Streaks of gray were interspersed throughout the dark of his buzz cut. He had a hard look about him, probably life-long military. He also had what Quatre was sure was a deep sexual attraction to him. Those eyes would look him over in ways that made him shudder with revulsion. When he came to take Quatre for his showers, he insisted on being there while Quatre cleaned himself. The other guards would typically wait just outside the door when he bathed. 

He groaned internally when he noticed it was Junior that had come for him that morning. The man leered at him through the bars and Quatre's eyes narrowed. Junior flashed him a white, but crooked-toothed grin. "Rise and shine, dog! You start your new job today."

He was led to the locker room where he was given a pair of work boots. He sat down on the bench and kicked off his slippers, pulling the boots onto his feet and tying the laces extra tight as they were a little big on him. He'd just barely gotten the final knot tied when Junior grabbed his arm and hauled him up. Quatre yanked his arm out of the steely grip.

"Get your hands off me!"

Junior pulled him roughly against him. "It's not a good idea to start your day with insolence. I advise you to behave yourself." Quatre glared up into the brown eyes, but said nothing as he was pulled out of the room. They headed down a narrow hallway, the sounds of banging and yelling voices drifted down the corridor. They walked through several guarded doors until he felt cool wind on his face as they stepped outside. Quatre closed his eyes for a moment, basking in the fresh air, clearing his sinuses of the musty smell of the prison. He hadn't seen the outdoors in nearly a week and he savored it, despite his situation.

The sky was gray with low, fast-moving clouds, a slight misty drizzle pelted his face and he blinked from the almost needle-like drops. He looked around, noting a group of prisoners, dressed exactly like him, the white collars around their necks, hauling concrete blocks around and cementing them to form a wall. Quatre snorted at the irony. He was going to assist in the construction of his own captivity. He spotted Blaine several yards away, barking at a few straggling prisoners.

"Keep it moving, scumbags. You'd better start learning to pull your own weight around here. This isn't a rest home."

"General," Junior hollered, his grip bruising on Quatre's arm.

Blaine glanced over at them, his face breaking into a wide grin. He walked over, looking decidedly pleased. "Ah, prisoner 4351A. So nice of you to finally join us. Come over this way. Your job is to help your fellow low lives build the extended wing of the prison. You take those blocks over there," he pointed to one of several large piles, "and you will stack them along here, just like these guys are doing. There are work gloves over there. I suggest you use them, or your hands will be torn up. You will be given two breaks throughout your shift for your meals and water. I suggest you use them to your full advantage."

Quatre listened intently and remained silent as he was handed a pair of gloves. He sighed as he slid them over his hands. Again, too big. Junior shoved him towards a pile of blocks. "Get to work. No slacking, no backtalk. You work hard, you'll have no problems."

Quatre grumbled under his breath and bent down to pick a block up. It weighed a good thirty pounds and he was reluctantly grateful for the gloves as the surface was rough, porous. There were no wheelbarrows so he had to carry one block at a time a few hundred feet across the yard to where the beginnings of a wall were being built. One of the prisoners, a young, handsome boy a little younger than Quatre moved aside so he could set the block into the next spot, adjusting it over the fresh layer of mud. He glanced at the boy who shot him a slightly sympathetic smile. Quatre dipped his head in acknowledgment and turned back to get another block.

They worked steadily throughout the day, occasionally getting damp from the off and on rain showers. He was dirty and sweaty despite the cool winds by the time lunch rolled around and they were given their first break. Quatre waited in line for his food as trays of bologna sandwiches, apples, and bottles of water were handed out. He dutifully took his offerings and glanced around for a place to sit. A waving arm caught his attention and he walked over to sit down on a short stack of blocks next to the young man he'd been working closely with all morning.

They hadn't really spoken, but Quatre knew the boy recognized him. He could see it in his eyes. He offered him a smile of gratitude and picked up his sandwich, taking a bite, more hungry than he'd been in a long time. Not even the stale bread was enough to deter his hunger. A few of the other prisoners gathered around them and plopped down to dig into their own lunches. 

A black haired guy leaned over. "You're Quatre Winner, aren't you?"

Quatre swallowed around a lump of bologna and bread, taking a sip from his water to wash it down. He nodded. 

"Man! I can't believe it!" He smacked the ground in his excitement and Quatre nearly laughed. He glanced over at the boy next to him. He reminded him vaguely of Trowa. They had the same shade of brown hair and it was longer in the front, but still not as long as Trowa's had been during the war. This boy's eyes were wider, his face rounder. He was soft-spoken, though Quatre wondered how much of it was natural and how much was just the situation.

"I'm Ben," he said, his accent clearly northern British. "This is Caleb, Justin, and Alhi." He pointed to each man in turn and Quatre reached over to shake each of their hands. 

"It's nice to meet you."

Alhi, a dark skinned man of Indian descent took a bite of his apple and mumbled around his mouthful. "So what brings you here?"

Quatre smiled and lifted his hands. "I'm a Newtype."

"No shite?" Justin spoke up, his voice tinged with amazement. He was leaning forward with his arms over his knees watching Quatre with fascination. "That's incredible, that is! What's your gift?"

Quatre's fingers absently hooked into the collar and pulled. The plastic was soft, bendable. "Empathy. Telepathy."

"Well, bugger me mum! Telepathy is rare. There's only two, or three of them here that I can think of." He looked around at the other three who nodded.

"Most of the prisoners here are empaths. There are a few telekenetics and premonitionaries," Ben said.

Quatre glanced at him. "Are you one of those?"

Ben shook his head. "I can influence people. Make them do things against their will. Only through touch, though. It requires physical contact."

Alhi pointed to himself and the other two. "We're all empaths, though Caleb has some premonitionary abilities."

"Only a little," the boy blushed. He was pale blond, blonder than Quatre even and had a lazy eye. It was difficult to tell if and when he was actually looking at Quatre. 

"How did you get caught?" Ben asked.

Quatre sighed and wiped his hands on his trousers. "It's a long story."

"We've got time."

He chuckled. "I'm not really sure how. I have a few theories, but they, whoever they are, sent my husband and my friends out on a -" He stopped himself there. It probably wasn't a good idea to give out too much information. "Mission. I think it was a false mission to send them away so they could get to me."

"What kind of a mission?"

"A mission I'm not comfortable with discussing, I'm sorry." Quatre glanced at Caleb in apology. He shrugged and gestured for Quatre to continue. "Anyway, while they were gone, the solders came for me. Knocked me out. I woke up on my way here."

"Fucking pigs," muttered Alhi. He kicked at the gravel, his mouth turned down. "They won't stop until we're all dragged out of our homes, our lives, like a bunch of animals. S'them who're the animals."

"Careful, Al," Ben hushed him, his expression full of worry. "Don't get yourself in trouble again. Please."

Quatre glanced at the Indian man. "What kind of trouble? What happened?"

Alhi looked away, but Ben turned to him with sad eyes. "He fought back. He was beaten and -"

"Ben!" Alhi hissed. 

Ben flushed and looked down. "Sorry." He looked up at Quatre, his eyes wavering. "You do what you're told and they generally won't hurt you. When you fight them, you get beaten. If you can't work, you are used as a whore." He swallowed and stared at his lap, his fingers picking at the pilled fabric of his pants. "They pass you around. To the guards, to the sellouts."

"Sellouts?"

Justin snorted. "Yeah. Prisoners who do favors for the guards to get favors in return. They get to enjoy raping the prisoners who can't pull their own weight."

"Justin," Ben hissed. "Don't -"

"Why not? T'is what it's called. And that's what they do." He looked up at Quatre who was staring at them, eyes wide with shock. "The poor bastards who aren't strong enough physically, or have health problems, they...'serve'...the prison with sexual favors."

Quatre's stomach rolled over and he felt like he was going to lose his lunch. This was outrageous! He was so furious, he couldn't even see straight. Was dizzy with it. The pacifist within him at war with the need for blood. His hands shook as he raised the water bottle up to his mouth, taking a long drink, trying to cool his rage before he did something stupid. He breathed steadily though his nose and swallowed down the emotion, allowing it to fester within his heart, to be unleashed at a later time. They were going to pay for this and pay dearly.

Ben leaned closer, whispered, "We've seen it. We've been lucky. But then there's Junior."

Quatre's heart skipped. "What about him?"

"Be careful around him. Watch your back. He has a...thing for blonds. And I'm sure you're aware of how attractive you are. Word has it, he's already attacked a few of the prisoners."

Quatre shivered in disgust and looked away. That bastard had been ogling him since he'd been brought in, but he had another thing coming if he tried to lay a hand on him, or anyone else.

Ben spun the cap on his water bottle. "Just thought you should have fair warning. Try not to be alone with him if you can get away with it. I know sometimes that's impossible."

"Thanks for the heads up." He glanced at each of them. "How long have you been here?"

Ben propped his chin on his hand, thinking. "I've think I've been here for two months."

Quatre's spine stiffened. "Two _months?_ But - this only just started!"

Justin laughed without humor and shook his head. "No. T'is only what the public thinks. This has been in the preparation stages for a long time. That 'murder' that supposedly initiated all of this? A ruse. Total shite."

Quatre veins turned to ice. How had he not known about this? "Are you saying that didn't actually happen?"

"You tell me. Didn't you find the coverage of the whole thing a little odd?"

Quatre slouched, suddenly understanding those feelings of trepidation he'd had. It was subtle, not easily caught. It wasn't handled like most murder reports, but then again, high profile cases were always different. He'd had no reason to suspect anything was off. The red flags he'd gotten from the story he'd simply chalked up to the rising animosity towards Newtypes. Details on the crime had been elusive at best, the story always changing. The suspect had never been shown, which was unusual, but again, Quatre had simply believed it was due to the sensitive nature of the crime. His mind was reeling with this new information. He dropped his head with a frustrated sigh. "This is not happening."

Caleb leaned back on his hands. "If you ask me, the kid of that little pissant, Zander, is probably living it up on some tropical island somewhere sipping cocktails on the beach and laughing with his buddies about their genius plan to rake Newtypes over the coals."

Ben quickly admonished him. "We don't know that."

Quatre shook his head, astonished. "I honestly had no idea. I don't even think Preventers knew." Une would have told him if she'd known anything about it. "That this has been going on...that Newtypes have been being imprisoned for so long and no one even knew about it." He felt immensely guilty, like he should have known. If he had, maybe he could have done something right off the bat and these young men wouldn't be where they were.

Alhi nudged his chin at Ben. "He's been here the longest. I've been here two weeks, these two rascals three."

"How did they find out about you?"

Ben shrugged. "I was out, so to speak. It wasn't a secret."

Justin spoke up, "My so-called friend ratted me out. Was blabbing about it all over the internet."

They stiffened, quieting down as guard strolled up and barked, "Break's over. Back to work."

Ben offered Quatre a small smile. "We'll talk more later."

Quatre got up and dumped his tray into a cart on top of the others and watched as another prisoner pushed it away, his eyes down, refusing to look at anyone. Quatre noticed the bruise on his cheek and stopped him with a hand on his arm, whispering, "Are you okay?"

The boy flinched and his eyes flickered up, looking into his own for a second before they slid to the right. Quatre glanced behind his shoulder to see Junior standing several feet away, staring at both of them. Quatre sneered at him and turned back to the boy who was already walking away, back into the building with the cart. Quatre noticed with a sinking feeling that he walked with a slight limp. He also didn't fail to notice the kid was blond.

He turned around to find Junior standing directly behind him. The man gazed down at him with almost crazed eyes, spoke with a rumbly voice. "You waiting for a written invitation?"

Quatre looked up at him, his eyes hardening. "You sick fuck," he muttered, stepping around the man's bulk and stormed over to the pile of blocks, picking one up and continuing his work. He worked quietly and furiously the rest of the day, so angry he couldn't even feel the fatigue that plagued his body as the sun went down. He showered mechanically and dressed in a clean uniform, sliding his feet into the standard issued slippers and obediently walked to his cell, flopping down onto the squeaky cot. He would not stand for this. He needed to do something and soon. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got over the hurdle I've been stuck on for weeks. Hopefully, the rest of the chapters will go relatively smoothly after this. Thanks for your patience and I hope you like! 
> 
> Warning: This chapter briefly mentions past gang rape.

Une shucked her uniform in the locker room and wrapped a towel around her body, nodding to a few of the prisoners who were dressing for their night shift. She stepped into the communal shower and hung the towel up, turning on the taps. She stared at the crumbling tile wall as she soaped herself up. The generic bar was drying and left a nasty film on her skin. God, but she missed her moisturizing body wash. Her stomach growled, still hungry after her meager supper that consisted of a small scoop of horrifically bland and mushy Stroganoff and an even smaller scoop of wilted green beans. The water in this place was terrible. It tasted strongly of the rust that resided in the pipes and was visibly cloudy. 

She'd been at Burgess Prison for a week now and she was amazed at how quickly she'd adapted to the 'lifestyle' of a prisoner. She worked, menial jobs, but they were enough to keep her busy at least. She unfortunately hadn't heard any more from Noin, but she was confident that if she and Zechs weren't in the country yet, they would be soon. Their silence might have been indicative that they could already be here, but were laying low, perhaps already in contact with the underground movement. 

In the meantime, she took the little comforts she could get. At least there was hot water for the showers, she mused. She glanced to her right as Nancy Piper stepped into the stall next to hers and turned on the faucet. Nancy was a secretary to one of the more prominent members of Parliament. Une remembered the speech she gave in Manchester on behalf of herself and Councilwoman Harrison. It was an emphatically passionate speech about equal rights and the humane treatment of Newtypes which garnered a lot of controversy. She'd stressed how important it was to see them for what they really were: Human beings. Human beings with jobs and families and lives and _rights_ just like everyone else. She'd recounted a story of a young Newtype mother who was attacked in Manchester the week before. She'd been gang raped and beaten to death by a pack of thugs after she was fired from her job upon discovery of her Newtype abilities. 

Her story made national headlines after she'd lost her job. The news outlets were ravenous for her story. Une had been furious when the original story aired because she knew they really weren't interested in the woman's plight other than the fact that she'd make a perfect sob story to rake in ratings. It was what had ultimately exposed her to the dangers of a largely ignorant public and she, and her family, suffered the consequences of that exposure. She had three small children, under the age of six who were now without a mother. 

Her story made national headlines again after her murder. It was Councilwoman Harrison's district and she was absolutely enraged at not only the woman's termination from her job, but the media feeding frenzy over it, and the subsequent attack once her identity had been exposed. She and Nancy Piper furiously scolded the media for their callous exposé and law enforcement for not doing a better job protecting the woman. They stressed that Newtypes were not commodities, nor were they second class citizens and had every right to live out their lives with the same opportunities and protections as everyone else.

That speech was the catalyst that had gotten the Councilwoman and her aide in trouble as Newtype sympathizers. Une learned from the guard she'd been speaking to that the Councilwoman was being imprisoned in a facility somewhere in Yorkshire, though she was unsure of the exact location.

Nancy glanced at her and offered her a small, tired smile. Une nodded and squirted some shampoo into her hand. Nancy leaned over as Une handed her the shampoo bottle. "You on kitchen cleanup tonight?"

"Yes."

"Good. We need to talk."

Une regarded her as she massaged shampoo into her hair. "About?"

"I've learned a few things. Heresay, of course, but...word is, there's a sewer drain in one of the utility closets. Big enough for people to fit. Apparently, it leads to an old underground tunnel system that goes outside the city."

"Who told you this?"

"Moore."

The guard. Une nodded. "Do you trust her?"

"As much as I can trust anyone nowadays."

"Point taken."

"The funny thing is, we should have known this was going on much longer."

"What do you mean?"

"Didn't Moore tell you?"

Une shook her head and tipped it beneath the spray. 

Nancy leaned over the tile partition between them and lowered her voice to a whisper. "This whole thing...these plans to usurp the government and imprison Newtypes has been going on for at least two years. Probably more like five, or so."

Une coughed as she inhaled some water. She wiped her eyes and stared at Nancy. "What?"

Nancy nodded, her face grave. "It was obviously hush hush which is why only Zander's most trusted people knew about it."

"Did Harrison know?"

"No. Not to my knowledge. She never mentioned it and I think I know her well enough to know if she knew, she would have told me."

It made sense considering how organized this had been. Une had her suspicions, but without prior knowledge, she couldn't be sure. 

"Only the elite members of Parliament knew apparently. There's also talk of a secret government organization that only a tiny handful of Parliament are aware of."

Une huffed angrily. She was supposed to be privy to classified information, but apparently this went far above that. How far exactly, she didn't know, but she was determined to find out. "Has Moore disclosed her informant?"

Nancy snorted. "Are you kidding?"

"Who all in here is she talking to?"

"You, me, Debra Tibbons, and I think Casey Wright."

Debra Tibbons and Casey Wright were well-known political advocates and lobbyists. There was a rumor that Casey was also a Newtype. "No one else?"

"I don't think so. She's being very careful not to tell anyone who she isn't sure she can trust. My guess is the informant has advised her who to talk to."

Une nodded. "Probably." Whoever the informant was, they were aware of things very few people were allowed to know about. Someone immensely important. "So, tell me more about this sewer."

"It's in the utility closet that offsets the kitchen. I don't really know the condition of the tunnels, or if they're even passable."

"Moore doesn't know?"

Nancy shook her head. "No, she hasn't been down there."

Une turned off her tap and wrung her hair out, shaking excess water from her hands. "I have to get in contact with my friends. They're on their way here. They may already be here."

"From what I hear, travel in and out of the country is banned. How would they even get in?"

Une smirked. "You don't know my friends." She quickly dried herself off and wrapped herself in the towel. "Somehow Moore was able to get a note from one of them to me."

"How?"

"The informant is someone very powerful. Of that I'm sure. They were able to notify my friends of my location and was able to get their message to me. Moore would not have that kind of access I don't believe. And whoever they are, they're keeping a very low profile."

Nancy wrapped a towel around her head and tucked the end into the back. "Listen, there's one more thing you should know."

Une nodded. "I'm listening."

"Moore told me about some secret government weapons program that involves using Newtypes."

Une turned to her, interest piqued. "What kind of program?"

"I don't have all the details yet, but it was launched during the first war from what I hear. This isn't something they're planning on containing only in Britain. There's a bigger picture here and it involves seizing control of not only Britain, but all of Europe. Probably the entire globe. Word is, it's been reopened under Zander's order."

Une cursed, her jaw clenching. This was the wars all over again. Treize and his goddamn aspirations of world domination. When was humanity going to learn?  "And they're going to use Newtypes to do this?"

"That's what Moore said. Apparently there were secret experiments that went on during the wars. They were conducted on specially equipped ships that were built for that purpose and taken out past the reaches of Mars' orbit. From there, they could do whatever they wanted and the interference from the asteroid belt would scramble any stray signals that might pick up what they were doing."

"Was Zander involved back then?"

"Zander was the director of the program, but he was appointed by Treize Khushrenada and the project was funded by Romefeller and the Barton Foundation as well as a few others."

"How does Moore know all this?"

"Like you said, this informant must be in a powerful position. Whoever they are, they know things. Things most government officials aren't even aware of. And in a strange, perverse way, this whole endeavor makes sense if you think like a dictator. I mean, Newtypes are the next step in evolution. A more advanced version of us."

"And Newtypes are only born in space."

"They, the scientists who have been studying them, think it has something to do with the decreased gravity, or the smaller percentage of oxygen, that allows their brains to take on more function."

Yes, Une had heard that theory before, but they really didn't _know_ for sure why Newtypes could do what they did. Though, considering that they didn't exist pre-Colony was an interesting factor. She went back to the locker room, slamming her towel down on a bench. She was shaking with fury, livid as she slipped on a clean uniform and headed to the kitchen for cleanup duty. She tied a disposable apron around her waist and picked up a cleaning brush, scraping the food remnants off the supper trays and slamming them into a stack to be washed. 

Goddamn Treize. Of all the things he'd entrusted her with, he never disclosed that information. This project was likely his brainchild. She wouldn't put it past him. He was beyond genius, almost inhumanly brilliant. But he'd never _told_ her about this. Logically, she knew why, but the revelation still pissed her off. He knew she would have drawn the line at cruel experiments on innocents. War was ugly and some things were an unfortunate necessity in order to achieve one's goals. The whole point of war was to win and sometimes it was by any means necessary. But there were lines that weren't to be crossed. Treize knew her well enough to know she wouldn't have approved. 

She realized that this wasn't just an open and shut case of Newtype hate and bigotry. Zander oversaw these experiments. Of course, he wasn't going to inform the public of his true intentions. Was he planning on using the imprisoned Newtypes to reopen the project? And if that was the case, then this whole movement was far more nefarious than she'd initially believed. This was an attempt to conquer the Earth Sphere using Newtype abilities in order to gain the upper hand. Zander was planning on filling Treize's shoes. 

Nancy stepped up beside her and grabbed a tray off the top of the stack, dipping it into the hot soapy water that filled the sink. She scrubbed at it with a rough sponge and glanced over at Une. "You're pissed."

Une shot her an incredulous look. "Of course I am!" She tutted and dried the tray with a clean towel. "I worked alongside that bastard through most of the first war. He trusted me with everything, or so I thought."

"You would have been opposed to that project."

She sighed and nodded. "He knew me too well. He knew there were some things I would do for him, but he knew what my limits were, too. I can't blame him for that, but yes. It pisses me off. I trusted that fucker to be open and honest with me."

"You loved him," Nancy said, her voice indicating she already knew that. There was no point in denying it.

"I did." She glanced at Nancy, looking for any sign of judgment on her face. She saw none. "I don't know how well you knew him, but he had a way of ensnaring you. He knew how to make you feel special, important. He knew how to make you fall in love with him."

Nancy nodded. "Textbook Narcissistic Personality Disorder. I was married to someone like that for fifteen years. Men like that are almost impossible to get away from."

Une snorted. "Don't I know it." Treize made her believe she was nothing without him. That she needed him to survive. After growing up with a mother who couldn't have cared less if she lived, or died, she craved the sort of love and attention she'd never gotten growing up. Treize gave her that and so much more. Even after she realized she was being used, she couldn't find it in herself to break away. By then, it was too late. She'd already been deeply in love with and dependent on him. Of course, she found out later that she wasn't the only woman whose life he'd sleazed his way into. He'd had a whole horde of women and at least a dozen illegitimate children all over the world, the most notable being Mariemaia. 

"I was a fool for far too long."

Nancy gently nudged her with an elbow. "Don't beat yourself up. You aren't the first woman to fall victim to a man like that and you won't be the last."

"How did you get away from your husband?"

"My son finally convinced me. Said he couldn't stand what Tom was doing to me and that he wouldn't speak to me again until I came to my senses and left him."

"Harsh."

Nancy shrugged. "Maybe. But it was what ultimately saved me. I have a great relationship with my son now." She laughed bitterly. "Of course, I found out later that my ex also fathered an additional nine children with seven different women while he was married to me."

Une nodded. "Sounds like Treize." Of course, Une never confronted him about it. While he had bedded her, they were never really 'official' no matter how much Une wanted them to be. She'd been so damn stupid. 

"So are you planning on checking out that drain?"

"I want to know more about it first. There's gotta be some old documents, schematics, or a map of the old system somewhere. I don't want to crawl my ass down there and then find out it's caved in, or something. I need Moore, or someone to figure out exactly what I'd be dealing with." She glanced at Nancy. "You going to join me if I do?"

Nancy nodded. "Absolutely. We're in this together."

Une smiled. "You're my kind of lady, Nancy. It's my pleasure to know you."

Nancy shot her a wry grin. "Pleasure's all mine."


	16. Chapter 16

Heero bolted upright when a loud honk sounded from outside the barn and glanced around in confusion. “The hell was that?” He spun around on his backside and peered through the gaps between the wooden boards, clicking the safety off his sidearm.

Wufei’s voice mumbled from beside him. “It’s a goose, you dimwit. Haven’t you ever heard a goose before?”

“Oh.” He clicked the safety back on and shoved the gun into his waist band. He had an awful crick in his back from sleeping on the half-rotted boards and wished he’d taken Wufei’s advice to sleep on top of his sleeping bag. Not even the pallet had cushioned the hard, uneven surface. 

“My back is killing me.”

“You should have slept -”

“On top of the bag, yes I know. I was cold.”

“Well, maybe if you wore _clothes_ once in a while…”

Heero grunted in reluctant acknowledgement, stretched, and nudged a snoring Duo with his knee. “Wake up. It’s morning.”

“ _Mmph_ , Sis'er Helen, jus’ five more minutes.”

Heero shoved his socked foot into his lover’s arm and Duo jerked awake with a snort. “Whazzit?”

“It’s morning, you idiot. Wake up. And wake up Trowa while you’re at it.”

"I'm already up," came Trowa's subdued murmur.

Duo rolled over and propped his head on a hand, yawning loudly. "Did you sleep at all?"

Trowa shrugged and glanced over at him. Duo could barely make out his face in the muted light of the barn, but the bags under his eyes were prominent. "A little."

"Tro, I know it's hard, man. But you gotta sleep. And eat. You're not going to help Quat by running yourself ragged."

"For once, I'm going to second Maxwell's advice," Wufei said as he rolled up his sleeping bag. He glanced up at Trowa, his expression stern. "You want to help Winner, don't you?" Trowa shot him a baleful look. "Well, you look like a damn zombie and you are pretty much acting like one, too. You're no use to him, or any of us like this. So I'd suggest you get your shit together, or you're going to end up compromising the mission, not to mention putting your husband at greater risk."

"Easy, Fei," Duo admonished. "No need to be so harsh."

"No, Duo. He's right." Trowa ran a hand through his tousled hair and blew out a heavy breath. "I do need to get my shit together. I'd never be able to live with myself if I jeopardized the mission because I'm wallowing in self pity. I can't put Quat in even more danger."

Heero stood up and stretched, his back popping so loud, Duo involuntarily cringed. "There's no room for liabilities." He sent Trowa a firm look, but Duo could see the softness, the sympathy in his eyes. "Either you're with us all the way, or you stay behind and let us deal with it. There is no in between."

Trowa nodded and reached for his bag. "I'm with you. All the way."

"Good. Now, eat. You need to keep up your strength."

Duo gave Trowa  lopsided grin. "Yeah, Tro. Can't have that buff body of yours wasting away to nothing." He fished some jerky and a can of beans out of his bag. "Can't light a fire in here, or out in the field. Too obvious so we'll have to eat 'em cold." He handed Trowa a package of jerky. "Protein." 

Trowa took the jerky and tore the plastic wrapper open. "Thanks." He tore a long piece off and stuffed it into his mouth, actually hungry for the first time since this all happened. Duo slapped him on the back and popped a piece of the dried meat into his own mouth, then went to work opening the can of beans. 

Heero watched his lover for a moment. "Did you bring spoons?"

Duo looked up at him with wide eyes. "Oh, shit. That's what I forgot."

"Damn it, Duo."

"I've got spoons," Sally said, digging into her pack and pulling out a handful of silverware. "Spoons, forks, knives, and an extra can opener, just in case."

Duo breathed a sigh of relief. "You're the best, Sal."

She shrugged and handed out the utensils. "Can't be too prepared."

Duo turned at the sound of Trowa crawling out of his pallet and watched him stand up. "S'up, Tro-man?"

Trowa didn't bother to look back as he stepped towards the door. "Nature's calling."

With that statement, Duo realized his own bladder was demanding attention and nodded. "Yeah. Me, too. I'll join you."

"Suit yourself." Trowa disappeared out the door. Duo turned when a hand grabbed his wrist and he looked down into this lover's face. The morning sunlight streamed in through the cracks in the wood, casting horizontal lines across his face. Duo could see the concern in his eyes.

"Try to talk some sense into him. I'm worried he could compromise the mission in the state he's in. He's not stable." Heero shook his head and turned when Wufei pressed a can of beans against his arm. He took the proffered can and looked back up at his lover. "If he can't get it together, he's not going to be allowed to help."

Duo was conflicted and he shot his lover a soft, but admonishing look. "Heero, his _husband_ was captured. What do you expect? You can't keep him from fighting to get Q back."

"I can and I will if he continues on like this. I won't have him putting Quatre, us, or himself in danger." He looked down and stuck his spoon into the beans, but didn't eat them. "He listens to you -"

"He listens to _you_."

"Also you. More than you realize. Just...try to get through to him."

Duo nodded and bent down to kiss him. "Alright. I'll do my best." 

"That's all I ask."

Duo stepped out through the rickety barn door, closing his eyes as the rising sun hit him in the face. It was bright, but he could feel the warmth and took a moment to bask in it. It was late October and northern Britain was not known for its balmy weather. The chill of the night had settled into his bones, but at least the cold rain had stopped. There was an instant of panic when he glanced around for Trowa and didn't see him. He pressed his hand over his chest in relief when he noticed the truck was still there at least.

"Tro? Where'd you go, buddy?"

"Right here."

Trowa appeared around the corner of the barn, zipping up his fly. His eyes were mild, steady, but Duo could see the prominent shadows beneath them.

"Man, don't freak me out like that." He walked several paces into the meadow and fished himself out of his jeans. "Thought you'd taken off," he said, glancing over his shoulder. Trowa was now sitting up against the barn with his knees up to his chest and his head down. Duo finished his business and stuffed himself back in. Heart breaking, Duo went to him and slid down the shingles until his butt rested on the cold, damp ground.

"We're going to have wet stains on our asses," he joked, trying to get a positive reaction, dismayed when Trowa didn't respond. "C'mon, buddy. You gotta snap outta this. Do you want to help Quat, or not?"

Trowa's head jerked up and he glared at Duo. "Of course I do!"

"Well, that's not gonna happen if you don't get your shit together. Hee-chan said he's not gonna allow you to compromise the mission and I have to agree with him. I know how personal this is for you, but if you want to be involved in Q-man's rescue, you're going to need to get yourself together. You gotta find that solider that you once were. We all do."

Trowa rubbed his forehead, nodding. "I know. I'm trying."

"You can't try. You just gotta do it, man. This is war. We all have to bring back that aspect of ourselves again, even though we don't want to, if we're going to win this." He nudged his friend with an elbow. "I'll bet Quat knows that and is doing the same thing."

"Quat's...he's always been strong. Able to adapt to anything. Stronger than me." He shook his head and picked a cat's tail out of the ground. "He's always been stronger than me," he said, twirling the stem between his fingers.

"Now you know that's not true."

"It is. If it had been me instead, I know he would have gone right into commander mode. What did _I_ do? Just fell apart."

"You're allowed to fall apart, but you also need to bounce back from that. If you want to be involved in this, and for Quat's, and ours, and even your sake, you have to find that soldier again."

Trowa dropped the cat's tail and brushed his hands on his jeans. "You're right. I will. I can do this."

"Hey, don't take it too hard. Civilian life has made us all a little softer. Hell, you should see Hee-chan at home. He's taken a real liking to interior decorating." Trowa snorted and Duo grinned, encouraged. "I'm serious! You should have seen him when we went shopping for curtains. It took him three hours to decides if green, or beige would go better with our furniture." For a moment, Duo's heart stopped when Trowa's shoulders started shaking, thinking he was breaking down again. He ducked his head, trying to get a glimpse of his face. "Are you - are you laughing?"

He was and God was that a relief. It was also contagious and Duo soon found himself laughing along with him, slinging a casual arm around his shoulders and leaning against him. 

"Oh man, Tro. You have no idea. He gets these home and garden catalogs now and he spends hours pouring through them. I caught him once and he blushed like a beet and denied he was doing it. It was a few months later that I found out he had a stash of those things." Trowa threw his head back, laughing hysterically now and Duo realized how much his friend needed this. He gave him a hearty slap on the back. "Just don't ever bring up textiles and color swatches around him. Trust me, my friend. That is a can of worms you don't want to open."

He chuckled as Trowa wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, a few residual giggles still escaping. He glanced over at Duo and smiled warmly. "Thanks. I needed that."

"Anytime, dude. We all need a good laugh sometimes."

"Even when things are bad?"

" _Especially_ when things are bad."

Trowa nodded again and folded his arms over his knees. "I suppose you're right."

The door swung open and Wufei stepped out, looking around with a sense of urgency, then found the two of them leaning against the barn. "There you are. What the hell are you doing?"

Duo pulled Trowa into a one-armed hugged and grinned at Wufei. "Relax, Fei. We were just having a chat."

"Well, there's no time for that. Get your asses in here and eat some breakfast. Yuy found out something you need to see."

"Ah, finally! A development." Duo stood up, wincing at the wetness on the back of his jeans. He brushed them off and linked his arm through Trowa's. "C'mon, buddy. Let's go find out what's new."

Trowa was staring at Wufei intently. "Is it about Quat?"

Wufei shook his head, his eyes softening. "No. Sorry. But I think you'll find this...interesting." He held the door open and pulled it closed once Duo and Trowa stepped through. They'd lit the camping lanterns. There were two on each of Heero's sides as he sat on his pallet. The glow from his laptop reflected off his face, making it appear blue. He was staring wide-eyed at the screen, occasionally looking down to enter in a keystroke. 

Sally handed Trowa and Duo each a can of soup. "You'll have to eat it cold, I'm afraid."

Trowa took the can and a proffered spoon, thanking her with a nod while Duo patted his stomach. "Cold soup. My favorite. Thanks, Sal." He spooned the soup into mouth as he stepped over to his lover, talking around his mouthful. "What'cha got for us, babe?"

Heero turned the laptop around, revealing what looked like classified documents. He swiped his finger and the screen flipped to the next page and then the next page. "Do you ever remember hearing about anything called Operation: Newtype?"

Duo stuck his spoon into his mouth, the handle protruding from between his lips as he squatted down next to his lover and shook his head. Pulling the spoon back out, he said, "No. No, that doesn't ring any bells. What about you, Tro?"

Trowa was kneeling beside him now, peering into the screen. He lifted his hand and Heero moved his own hand away from the mouse pad so Trowa could read through the documents. He scanned the lines of text, swiping his finger across the pad to flip to the next page. "This is news to me. Mars reformation - what? What the hell is this?"

"I've never heard of it either," Heero muttered. "Which is weird. I always thought I'd had everything on Khushrenada and OZ." He shook his head and turned the laptop back towards himself, typing a few words into the keyboard. "This...this was hidden behind an unprecedented amount of firewalls."

"Is that what you've been trying to crack since yesterday? I was wondering why it was taking you so long," said Duo.

"I've never encountered this much security before."

"What is Operation: Newtype? What does it have to do with Mars?" Asked Trowa.

Behind them, there was a derisive snort and Duo turned to see Wufei standing a few feet away, his arm around Sally. "Those assholes were planning on creating Newtype soldiers and they were going to use Mars as their base of operations."

"What?" Duo coughed on a mouthful of soup. "What? How? When did all this happen?"

Heero was staring at the screen again. "As soon as Romefeller realized that some people who were born in space had these special abilities, they opened up a "research" center." He curled the index and middle fingers on both hands in a quote gesture. "While they did do research on the phenomenon, they also launched a super secret program where they began experimenting on Newtypes." His face contorted into an expression of disgust. "And when I say experiment, I mean all kinds of horrific, inhumane things. They essentially tortured these people."

"Why?"

"Because that's what humans do when they want to "understand" something," Wufei scoffed. "Mind you, this was all done in the name of science."

Duo clicked his tongue. "Lemme guess. They decided Newtypes would be a useful tool in warfare."

"Bingo," said Heero. He scrolled through the screen and turned it back to face them. "Here's a list of all the organizations that helped fund the project."

Duo read down the list, mumbling out loud. "Romefeller, White Fang, oh big surprise there. The Barton Foundation...Wi -" Duo looked up sharply. "Winner Enterprises?"

Heero nodded solemnly. "Afraid so."

"But...why?"

Trowa growled beside him, fury setting in. "Because Quatre's father was nothing if not an opportunist. Anything for an advantage, even if that included throwing his own son under the bus." He turned away and chucked the soup can against the wall. "Son of a _bitch!_ "

"Okay, Tro. Relax. That was a long time ago." Duo glanced back at Heero. "Does Quat know about this?"

"I doubt it. He's never given me an indication...I mean, I've never _felt_ anything." He looked up to see Trowa giving him a hard look. "I've never gotten that impression from him."

"Of course he didn't," Trowa snapped. "He would have told me." He stuck his fingers into his hair, dragging them through the tousled locks in a show of aggravation. "Can't believe it. His own fucking _father_."

Heero was looking back at the screen. "It says here that WEI's first donation occurred on December 12th, 185." He glanced up at his lover. "Quatre's fifth birthday. His father must have already known he had abnormal abilities."

Duo cocked his head. "I thought Newtype abilities didn't manifest until they reached puberty."

"In most cases, that's true. It was in mine. In Quatre's case, though..." He shook his head and tapped the monitor. "His manifested when he was just a toddler. Very rare and an indication of an exceptionally strong Newtype."

Duo leaned back and crossed his ankles. "Well, we already knew Quat's was stronger than most. When was this program first launched anyway?"

"It says here that the research program opened on March 4th, 166. The weapons program only two years after that." Heero looked up, glancing at each of them in turn. "Does anyone remember hearing about the rash of Newtype disappearances from AC 167-169?" They collectively shook their heads. "There was a media blackout on the subject, but not before some of the story broke. It wasn't big news on Earth, but in the colonies, it was. At least until the people in charge shut it down."

"How many disappeared?" Asked Trowa.

"The coverage was inconsistent. Anywhere from fifty to one hundred fifty from what I can discern."

"There's a big difference between fifty and a hundred and fifty," said Duo.

"It does say that the number of specimens... _people_ they experimented on was one hundred twenty two, so that must be the correct number."

"And they wanted to figure out a way to recreate the abilities Newtypes have," Wufei interjected. "They developed an AI program that mimicked the strongest Newtypes."

Trowa's eyes widened. "Zero."

Heero nodded. "Yeah. Zero was the prototype and Epyon was based off of it."

Duo sputtered. "But, the Mad Five came up with that!"

Heero turned the computer again, his face grim. "They were in on the program, Duo. And guess who directed it." He pointed to the short list of names near the top of a document.

"Fucking _Zander?_ "

"Zander was appointed by Treize Khushrenada to oversee the operation," said Sally.

"So what happened to the program?"

"It lost its funding after the first war and the fall of Romefeller and was scrapped," Heero said with a sigh. "It looks like Zander's been busy rebuilding interest."

Trowa stepped forward. "He's relaunching it?"

"According to this, he already did. Five years ago."

"And the Newtypes he's recently taken are part of his plan to recruit new soldiers," Duo guessed.

"Not quite. Zero's been destroyed. They need to recreate the system again, but in order to do that, they need to harness the abilities of the strongest known Newtypes. But they can't use the Newtypes who are currently alive as soldiers. That would require decades of torture, brainwashing, and indoctrination and the process would likely kill more than half of them."

"Sounds like something they would do," said Duo.

But Heero shook his head. "Not if you need power in numbers. It's also not efficient. The best way to do it is to recreate the AI program and clone the Newtypes they've captured and install the system into their brain via a microchip while the clones are still in infancy."

"What about Mars?" Asked Trowa.

"Some of the captured Newtypes have already been transferred. There were giant ships that were specifically built for their experiments and were taken out past Mars' orbit. That way, they could ensure their secret operation. In addition to that, they were terraforming Mars..." He pulled up a photo from the bottom of the menu and pointed at it. "This was the complex that they'd begun construction on back in 186. They never finished it because the war happened."

Duo snorted. "I bet ol' Treizey was pissed that he didn't have his magic soldiers by the time war broke out."

"Not for lack of trying," said Sally. "When he died, the program died with him, or so we thought."

"Do we have a lead on Zander?"

Heero looked up at Trowa and shook his head. "Not yet. But we will. Hopefully when we reach the stronghold, they'll have more for us."

"They'd better," Duo muttered. 

"Speaking of which, I hate to call this little conference to an end, but we're burning time here," Wufei pointed out. 

Trowa nodded eagerly. "Yeah, we need to get going." He turned to his pallet and began rolling up his sleeping bag. The situation was even more urgent than he'd realized. If Quatre hadn't already been taken on one of those ships, if he wasn't already on his way to Mars, he just might be soon. Trowa didn't even want to imagine the deplorable things his husband would have to endure. 

"Trowa," Heero's stern voice broke through the haze of panic and he turned, looking at him over his shoulder. Heero's eyes were dark, deadly serious, but there was a hint of uncertainty and concern. "I know you know the repercussions of going into this when you're not thinking clearly. If you can't -"

"I can, Heero. I am. I got this."

"You sure?"

Trowa nodded, feeling much clearer now than he had been since Quatre was taken. He could feel the dark cloud of the Silencer settling into his bones, filling him with a deadly calm like he hadn't felt since the war. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm ready."

Heero watched him intently for another long moment, needing to be sure. Then he nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Alright. Let's go then."

"Wait a minute," Duo said, holding up a hand. He turned on his lover. "What about you?"

"What do you mean?"

Duo rolled his eyes. "I mean, _hello!_ " He pointed at his lover. "You. Also a Newtype."

"Duo, I really don't -"

"No, I really do. Save it. If they found out about Quat, then that also means they know about you. I don't want you at risk, too." Duo's voice dropped, his face twisting into something like pain. "I - what if something happens to you? What will I do then?"

Heero lifted his chin and fixed his lover with a steady gaze. "Nothing is going to happen to me. And even if it did, you would continue on with the mission. No matter what. You may be my lover, but right now, your duty is as a soldier. That's your job and you will do it like it's your only priority. Understood?" He stepped around Duo without waiting for a response and began packing up his things.

Duo watched him for a moment, then crouched down to throw his things into his bag. "I hate it when you go all Perfect Soldier on me. I don't know whether to be pissed, or turned on."

Heero shot him a smirk. "Why not both?"


End file.
